Origins of the Friendly Four
by Cheezey
Summary: We know much of the story behind the four villains known as Bushroot, Liquidator, Megavolt, and Quackerjack. But what of their good-aligned counterparts in the Negaverse? How did they become the heroes they are there, fighting against Negaduck?
1. Prologue

**Origins of the Friendly Four**

**By Cheezey**

**Prologue**

Young Gosalyn stood on her tiptoes peering out of the window of the old lighthouse, her gaze wavering between the gray and darkening sky beyond the St. Canard city skyline and the bustling, if not seedy, streets below. It would be a moonless night, and the air hung thick with smog that would occlude most of the stars once night fell. It was a better place than it used to be, but the Negaverse's St. Canard was still no paradise. The Friendly Four had done a lot to improve it in their time since Darkwing Duck had miraculously appeared to help and empower them, but there was only so much that four individuals could do, even if said individuals had super-powers, and even if Lord Negaduck was absent much of the time.

Despite that absence, the wicked crime lord's influence was still everywhere in the city. Negaduck may have felt that Darkwing had ruined "his" Negaverse, but the truth was that Negaduck's power extended far beyond him. Those who were afraid of Negaduck and those who served him still remained loyal to him, either out of fear or just plain avarice. Those with mercurial scruples flourished under Negaduck's reign, and many of the police and politicians still followed his agenda and whims because it lined their pockets and kept them in power. Gosalyn might have been young, but she understood that well enough to know that was how it was, despite her generally upbeat outlook. Gosalyn herself had become a much brighter light, as the guardian who owned her current hideaway sometimes told her with fondness when he spoke to her, now that she no longer endured Negaduck's daily abuse.

It amazed the Friendly Four how optimistic Gosalyn had remained under Negaduck's ward-ship. While he had never beaten her physically, aside from the occasional backhand or hard slap, his verbal abuse had been poisonous enough that it would have left deep scars on the psyche of an average child. Of course, Gosalyn was far from average. If she had been, Negaduck never would have become her guardian to begin with, although it was her background rather than anything particular about her that had drawn Negaduck's interest. Old man Waddlemeyer, Gosalyn's grandfather, had been a rich old coot that made money hand over fist designing weapons for S.H.U.S.H., the corrupted intelligence agency that quietly took care of inconveniences that the law could not without presenting the wrong image. The Negaverse S.H.U.S.H. was deeply in Negaduck's pocket, and Waddlemeyer had been a trusting fool to consider the malevolent mallard a friend. Since Gosalyn was the sole heir to her grandfather's fortune and legacy, as her parents had died when she was a young hatchling, she had been entrusted to the care of her only living grandparent.

It had not taken Negaduck long to recognize that the girl was key to acquiring the controlling interests in Waddlemeyer's affairs, and he had "befriended" the old man just long enough to gain his trust. Negaduck had even gone so far as to eliminate a rival of his, Taurus Bulba, to secure that friendship. Bulba was an influential rebel that wanted to get his hands on Waddlemeyer's weapons for some, as Negaduck referred to it, "pathetic moral crusade" against what they called the "corruption and misuse of power by S.H.U.S.H.". When Bulba had been brazen enough to try and abduct Gosalyn to protect her from said corruption, Negaduck "saved" her from him. Waddlemeyer had been so grateful to Negaduck that he named him as Gosalyn's guardian should anything happen to him, believing that she would be safe from S.H.U.S.H.'s many enemies that way. Little did he know that he had played right into Negaduck's hands. It was not long before the black-hearted duck saw to it that Waddlemeyer was slipped a fatal dose of drugs that induced a heart attack, and Gosalyn and her interests were turned over to his care until she reached adulthood. Ironically, it had been Waddlemeyer's trusted S.H.U.S.H. doctors that performed his autopsy and discovered that he had been poisoned, but because S.H.U.S.H. felt that Waddlemeyer's designs and secrets were best left in control of Negaduck anyhow, they covered it up and let him assume the role of Gosalyn's guardian without protest.

Negaduck himself had been disgusted by the notion of playing "Daddy" to what he considered a nauseatingly cheerful child, but he figured that given enough time, he could toughen Gosalyn up and harden her edges so that one day she might not be an embarrassment to him. Still, Negaduck could barely stand to be around her most of the time, so he had her put up in a house in a suburban development in a rough neighborhood, supervised by his brawny and not-too-bright, but loyal, sidekick Launchpad. The house's neighbors, the Muddlefoots, had already made a name for themselves as the kind of individuals Negaduck wanted Gosalyn to emulate, and he stopped by the dumpy hovel every so often to make sure that she was being seen to as he expected. Negaduck himself stayed in cushier digs most of the time, or traveled to keep tabs on his crime networks in the Negaverse and in the alternate parallel world where his worst enemy—his loathed double Darkwing Duck—was from.

Darkwing Duck. Gosalyn could not help but smile whenever she thought of the mysterious masked hero from the parallel world. He had been so amazing, and had done so much in the short time she had known him. It was because of him that she no longer lived in a filthy house, one she was forced to keep dirty to please Negaduck, being scolded and belittled day in and day out by Launchpad or Negaduck himself when he felt like showing up. It was because of Darkwing Duck that her best friend, Tank Muddlefoot, no longer had to endure daily cruel taunting and mockery from his parents or his nasty little brother Honker. When Darkwing Duck had come to the Negaverse, he had shielded her and Tank from the viciousness of Negaduck, Launchpad, and Tank's family. Gosalyn still shuddered when she thought about how the Muddlefoots were heartless enough to draw weapons on their own son. It seemed that their greed and lust for Negaduck's favor was more powerful than any love they had for their "disappointment" of an offspring.

The rebels known as The Friendly Four had spirited Gosalyn and Tank away from all of that after Darkwing Duck left the Negaverse, taking Negaduck with him for what they had hoped would be forever. Unfortunately it was not, and even before Negaduck made his return, the Negaverse was still far from a safe place for any of them. The Friendly Four protected Gosalyn and Tank by putting them up in their various hideouts, and despite everything, they managed well enough. Megavolt, Bushroot, Liquidator, and Quackerjack were used to living on the fringe of St. Canard's society as outlaws and enemies of Lord Negaduck, and they had a number of hiding places that were decent, if not unusual, homes compared to the miserable places Gosalyn and Tank had been used to. None of the Friendly Four minded if Gosalyn cleaned or dusted, or wore the pretty clothes she loved so much. None of them screamed at Tank or called him a "pathetic dork" or "lame bookworm" for studying the things that fascinated him about the world. In fact, Megavolt's lighthouse home was bright and warm, with plenty of light illuminating it in a soft glow of varying hues of incandescent and fluorescent. One room, in fact, was always lit up like the pretty multi-colored Christmas trees that Gosalyn had seen in storybooks. Such festive and happy decorations were all but outlawed in St. Canard thanks to Negaduck's grim taste and S.H.U.S.H.'s enforcement of it. Of course, there were those that were defiant, but the smart ones kept it to themselves and were not open about their tastes. Few were brave enough to openly oppose or speak ill of Negaduck or S.H.U.S.H., and those that did were branded "rebels" much like Gosalyn's new guardians had been.

"You should get away from the window, Gosalyn," Tank said quietly, with a note of concern in his voice.

Gosalyn turned toward him with disappointment shining in her green eyes. "I don't think anyone can see me up here… and I like the view. You can't see this much of the city or the bay like this from any of our other hideouts."

"But you never know what kind of sophisticated surveillance equipment informers or S.H.U.S.H. agents might have. Right now no one knows that Megavolt came back to this place. If they saw you…" His voice trailed off meaningfully, and Gosalyn gave a small nod of understanding and stepped back. What he said was true; Negaduck knew that Megavolt had once lived in the lighthouse, but the rat purposefully left the outside of it looking abandoned and run down so that no one would suspect he had returned to it. He had even, with the help of the others, constructed a tunnel that allowed them to enter and exit from the basement and emerge two properties over, in the kind of place no one would poke around much—an old scrap yard run by a friend who sympathized with them. Although true friends seemed far and few between, there were just as many good souls in the Negaverse as there were evil ones in the alternate world Darkwing Duck called home. Their friend in the junkyard, Adustan, was an elder canine in his sixties, the kind of individual that went with the flow and paid lip service to the right people while helping out those he thought were truly in the right, like the Friendly Four, on the sly. He'd had no love for Negaduck or S.H.U.S.H. ever since his son, who had worked for S.H.U.S.H., was killed on duty after being used as what essentially amounted to cannon fodder on one of their covert operations. S.H.U.S.H.'s idea of reparations had been an empty apology and a condescending story of how he had been a hero, but Adustan had seen enough evidence to know the truth, and while he never questioned S.H.U.S.H. outwardly, he also never forgot it.

"I spoke with Adustan a little while ago," Tank continued in a somber tone. "I gave him some of the new electronic locks that I've been tinkering with in Megavolt's workshop. He said they'd be really useful," he said with a small smile before resuming his more serious look. "But he had me keep out of sight, and showed me this." He pulled a folded up paper from his pocket and unfolded it to show it to Gosalyn. It was a photograph of her, looking frightened and scared, with text underneath it that read _"Missing! If you have seen this girl, please call this hotline with any information. Lord Negaduck and S.H.U.S.H. will reward generously for information leading to her whereabouts and the arrest of her abductors. Her captors are suspected to be The Friendly Four, and armed and very dangerous. Substantial rewards will be given for the capture of these criminals and their accomplices, dead or alive."_

"He said these are all over the city. I'm sure I don't need to tell you how hard this will make everyone look for you."

Gosalyn nodded somberly and sighed. "I wonder if we'll have to move to a different place now."

"It might be prudent," Tank said, also sounding disappointed. "We should definitely let them know when they get back." He glanced at the window, wondering where their four guardians were. They had all departed within an hour of one another earlier in the day, each with a different purpose. Liquidator was scouting for new safe hideouts while Bushroot was obtaining equipment that they needed to augment their powers and help others, such as certain chemicals, seeds, and medical supplies. Megavolt was on a similar mission, only he was gathering mechanical and electrical components that could be used to make the toys and trick weapons Quackerjack designed, as well as other odds and ends that he and the others could utilize. Quackerjack was out and about disguised—not unusual for him, as he loved the chance to dress up and "role play"—in public places keeping an eye out for trouble or others that might be against Negaduck and S.H.U.S.H. and therefore sympathetic to their cause. In the time since Darkwing Duck had visited and galvanized the Friendly Four into a well-oiled machine of a team, they had met a few others, also branded "rebels", who were willing to take a stand and fight Lord Negaduck and his S.H.U.S.H. spies when they could. One such individual was Agent Steelbeak of the Friendly Organization of World Liberation, also known as F.O.W.L., an outlaw "terrorist" group whose true goal was to expose Lord Negaduck and S.H.U.S.H. for what they were and hold them accountable for their crimes against the innocent. The Friendly Four also had the names of a couple of other F.O.W.L. agents that they intended to speak with when the opportunity arose, but more friends were never a bad thing, so they always kept an eye out for those who might turn out to be one.

"I hope it's soon." Gosalyn shivered a little, even though the room was not very cold, and went toward the kitchen while Tank followed behind her. "Maybe I'll make everyone a nice dinner."

"May I recommend your very delicious baked pasta with the three cheese blend? It will perfectly complement what's left of the apple pie you prepared yesterday when we have dessert."

"If there's enough left after the big slice you had for your oh-so-nutritious lunch this afternoon," Gosalyn teased good-naturedly, her curls bouncing as she did so, while Tank gave her a sheepish smile.

"You're a very good cook."

"Thank you." Her green eyes took on a wistful look. "I had to learn to be, because Negaduck got very angry whenever his food wasn't just right. Luckily Launchpad was never so picky."

Tank frowned while Gosalyn pulled the dishes and ingredients out to begin cooking. "That would be one of the few things Launchpad ever did to make things easy on you," he remarked as he passed her a box from the cupboard. "We all appreciate you doing all the things you do, Gosalyn."

Gosalyn smiled modestly as she poured the pasta into the pot. "Oh, I know that. And I like cooking and cleaning and organizing. It's fun." She giggled. "Besides, as great as Megavolt is, he's not very neat. Some of his light bulbs hadn't been dusted in a long time. I hope they were happy when I cleaned them off."

"They were," Megavolt's tired voice sounded from behind them. Gosalyn and Tank both turned around to greet their guardian, but startled looks flashed across both their faces when they got a good look at him. His yellow jumpsuit was charred, and his exposed skin had smudges of soot on it and what looked like superficial burns and bruises. His boots were badly scorched and one of his gloves had a vicious-looking tear down one side that they saw extended up his sleeve when he came closer. There was dried blood crusted around the edges, presumably from the ugly cut beneath it.

"Megavolt!" Gosalyn dropped her spoon in the pot and rushed to his side along with Tank. "Are you all right?"

Tank adjusted his glasses and took a closer look at the cut on Megavolt's arm. "That's a most painful-looking scratch. We need to clean and bandage it before you get an infection. Do you think you might need stitches or medical attention?"

"No!" Megavolt said, emphatically enough that both of the children, especially Gosalyn, flinched. Immediately he amended his tone to one more gentle, feeling a touch of guilt for scaring the kids. Although he cared deeply for them, he felt out of his league in the role of foster parent, as he'd had limited experiences with children before he and Quackerjack, Bushroot, and Liquidator took them in. "What I mean is, I'm fine." Megavolt forced a smile of reassurance. "It's just a scratch. It looks worse than it is."

"It should be cleaned and bandaged regardless," Tank said with a note of assertiveness.

Gosalyn nodded along with Tank and gave Megavolt a hug. "He's right. We don't want you to get sick or hurt." She looked up at him. "What happened?"

"I ran into one of Negaduck's nastier friends who was looking for you," he said before turning toward the hall. "Don't worry about it. I may look terrible, but she got a real charge out of cornering me." He held up his finger, which sparked in tandem with his words. "I'm going to clean up and I'll tell you about it over dinner."

As Megavolt headed into the bathroom, Gosalyn stood there for a moment watching his retreating figure before she resumed her position at the stove. She did not say anything as she began stirring the pasta once more, but Tank did.

"It isn't your fault."

"They were looking for me. He got hurt because of me." The guilt that hung in her words was almost tangible.

Tank put his hand on Gosalyn's arm. "He got hurt because he wanted to help you, so you won't have to go back to living with Negaduck and Launchpad."

"I know." Gosalyn closed her eyes for a moment. "I just wish it didn't have to be that way. I wish he could understand that you're all my friends." She looked over at Tank. "I mean, he has friends. Why can't I?"

"I wouldn't want his friends." Tank shuddered. "Anyone who'd want to be friends with someone like my brother or my mom and dad or Launchpad…"

Gosalyn lowered her voice to a whisper, more out of habit than actual necessity. "Do you think one of them did it?"

Frowning thoughtfully, Tank replied, "Well, he did use a feminine pronoun to refer to his assailant, so the only one of them it could possibly be would be my mother." His frown deepened. "I hope it wasn't, but it'd be foolish to say it's impossible."

Their conversation was interrupted when they heard someone coming up the lighthouse stairs. When they turned around, Gosalyn and Tank saw Bushroot enter with his vine arms loaded down with boxes and bags. "Allow me to assist you," Tank said as he lifted a sizable portion of the plant-duck's burden off of his load.

Bushroot smiled back at Tank. "Thank you. That was getting heavy after all those stairs. I'm used to having oaks do that kind hauling for me."

"Hi, Bushroot!" Gosalyn called over cheerfully from the kitchen. "Wow, what's all that?"

"One of our connections at the hospital got me some extra stuff from the diagnostics lab that'll be very handy for my experiments." A wistful look filled the plant-duck's blue eyes for a moment. "Unfortunately I almost ran into my sister on the way back out into the alley... but she didn't see me." He sighed. "Probably sneaking some pills on her break."

Tank and Gosalyn exchanged looks; both of them knew that Bushroot was the most sensitive of their guardians, and the most prone to dwelling on depressing things, such as his now nonexistent relationship with his family. Typical of those in the Negaverse who wanted an easy lifestyle, the Bushroots were all staunch "law abiding" citizens that did whatever S.H.U.S.H., and hence, Negaduck, demanded. As soon as Bushroot had gone against Negaduck publicly, his parents and his sister had essentially disowned him, not unlike Tank's family had him. "At least Dr. Whisken is willing to help," Gosalyn said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Yes," Bushroot said, brightening. "I'll have to thank Quackerjack again for having his friend in F.O.W.L. get us in touch with him. He really did us a big favor."

Overhearing the conversation, Megavolt emerged from the bathroom. "Hey, Bushroot. I don't suppose you happened to get any gauze in that?"

"With all the accidents Quackerjack has making those weapon toys? You bet." Bushroot's bill took on a concerned frown when he noticed Megavolt's arm, now bare with his sleeve rolled up after having cleaned his wound. "What happened?"

Megavolt sighed. "It's a long story. I ran into one of Negaduck's groupies, but I'm all right."

"No you're not!" Quackerjack's voice exclaimed from the stairwell behind them. Both he and Liquidator had reached the top of the stairs and were just in time to catch the tail end of their conversation, and see Megavolt's wound for themselves. Quackerjack threw down the paper he had been holding onto a nearby chair and rushed to Megavolt's side. "You need stitches."

Jerking his arm away, Megavolt protested, "No I don't. Really. It's not even bleeding anymore." He ran his finger over the edge of the cut. "And I'm not going to risk going to an emergency room or clinic where any S.H.U.S.H. peon or spy of Negaduck's could be."

Liquidator glided over to the chair and picked up the paper that Quackerjack had discarded; another "Missing Child" poster like the one Tank had shown Gosalyn earlier. Quackerjack had seen them while he was out in the city as well and had taken one to show the others, and Adustan had just warned Liquidator about the same thing when he had returned to the secret entrance to the lighthouse. "Market research suggests that a low profile is the way to stay in business at the moment," Liquidator said, holding up the flyer. "If Megavolt feels that a trusty home-applied hospital-grade bandage will do the trick, the customer is always right."

Bushroot set the rest of his boxes down and began to go through them until he found what he was looking for. "Here's some of what I got today." He tossed a pack of sterile gauze in their direction.

A natural at catch, Quackerjack caught it. "All right, but let one of us bandage it at least," he said to Megavolt, shaking his head in a way that made the bells on his hat tinkle. "How'd you manage that, anyway?"

"You know how we suspected that Negaduck might be involved with that eccentric Morgana Macawber? Turns out our suspicions were right." Megavolt winced as Quackerjack pulled the gauze taut against the open wound. Despite the ointment on it, it was still raw and sore.

"Morgana Macawber, the witch with a capital B," Liquidator quipped with what was the equivalent of a roll of his fluid eyes. It was the closest he would come to using vulgar language around Gosalyn and Tank. Of the four of them, Liquidator had the most experience with children, being the oldest of the four and once having had a family of his own, in what felt like a lifetime ago to the now mutant outcast water dog. "I had some dealings with her when I was running the water company. We were both members of the city's board of business owners. At one time she was a respectable business woman, but ever since those rumors about her and Negaduck started stirring… well, other rumors about her and her practices started floating around as well."

"I've heard she's a real witch," a disconcerted Bushroot said. "Not just in personality, but actual dark magic."

Megavolt nodded. "Yeah, and it packs a real punch, too. You know how it feels when I shock something?" Since all of them had gotten accidental zaps at one time or another from being around Megavolt, they nodded. "Her magical energy feels a lot like that, only more like it grabs onto you and chokes while it burns. That wasn't the worst, though. She had some spell that brought a mailbox to life, and that's what gave me this cut." Megavolt sighed again. "I forget what she called it now… but it was nasty."

"Well then, we'll have to be one hundred percent more careful about our actions now that we have a confirmed new competitor," said Liquidator.

"And more careful with our backsides," Quackerjack added, giving Megavolt a playful swat on the back of his shoulder once he finished bandaging him. "Dr. Bushroot here isn't an actual medical doctor, you know."

"Not to us, but he is to Al here," Gosalyn said with a gesture to the thriving aloe plant on a nearby end table. With the number of run-ins they had, sometimes their supplies ran low and Bushroot's natural plant-based home remedies were quite handy for such things when they could not just stroll into a pharmacy and buy something without risking being recognized by a S.H.U.S.H. informer or a citizen inclined to earn favor with the agency or Negaduck. Gosalyn broke off one of the thick gel-filled leaves and brought it over to Megavolt, who squeezed dabs of it onto smaller cuts and burns that did not need dressing.

Quackerjack smiled at her. "Thanks. I think now he's about as patched up as he's going to get tonight." He sniffed at the air. "Are you making the Yummy-Ummy Oooey-Gooey Cheesy Creamy Pasta again?"

At that Gosalyn beamed; even small gestures of appreciation were still somewhat of a novelty to her after having lived under Negaduck's "care" for so long. "I sure am!" Her eyes widened as she remembered that she had left it on the still-burning stove. "But I'd better go stir it so it doesn't burn." She scampered back into the kitchen with Tank hot on her heels, who was hoping for the first hot-off-the-stove taste of it when it was done. Once the kids were out of the room, Bushroot and Liquidator joined Megavolt and Quackerjack to discuss what had happened in quieter tones.

"Did she find out anything about us from how far she followed you, or anything else?" Bushroot asked.

"I don't know," Megavolt replied with a concerned look. "I know I didn't say anything, because I wasn't talking to anyone while I was out, really, but I think she'd been tailing me for a while before she showed herself." He reached up and adjusted his helmet with the hand attached to his uninjured arm before continuing. "I did get a parting shot that had enough amps to make her hair _really_ look like the Bride of Frankenquack before I left, though." He paused and then looked at the other three with bright eyes, like he often did when his shaky memory recalled an important detail he had previously forgotten. "Oh! If you ever run into her, take out the bats and spider that follow her around first. She gets some kind of energy from them, like they're an extension of her."

"Witch's familiars," Bushroot said, recalling the term from old horror movies.

Quackerjack, meanwhile, chuckled and held up Mr. Banana brain. "She's too creepy for even the black cats to like, Mike!"

"The only familiarity the Liquidator has with bats and spiders is to wash away the guano and webs to leave your home sparkling clean and pest-free," Liquidator added with a look of distaste.

Quackerjack lowered Mr. Banana Brain and spoke in his normal voice. "Don't witches have powers to spy on people with, like in a crystal ball?"

"I thought that was cheesy fortune tellers on the boardwalk that did that," Megavolt said, wrinkling his nose cynically.

"No, I'm sure I saw a show once where a witch had a crystal ball on a creepy looking stand." Quackerjack paused. "Though she had a blue cat, not a bunch of bats and spiders."

"Let's play it safe and assume she does," interjected Bushroot. "What should we do if that's the case? Do we up and move _again_, at least until it's safe to come back here?"

The four of them glanced over at the kitchen, where Gosalyn was now carrying the serving bowl to the dinner table that Tank had set for them, with even a small plate in front of the doll-sized high chair that Quackerjack had Mr. Banana Brain sit in so he could dine with them. Someone usually ate his portion too, be it Bushroot's pet fly trap Spike when he was with them, or Tank, or sometimes even Quackerjack himself when Mr. Banana Brain was being "such a picky eater". Spike was not at the lighthouse, however, but guarding Bushroot's greenhouse in his absence, so it remained to be seen whether Tank would sneak bites of food off of Mr. Banana Brain's plate while Quackerjack was not looking—a game that had started and continued over the last few months—or whether poor Mr. Banana Brain would receive a stern admonishment for insulting Gosalyn's cooking skill after all of the trouble she went to preparing it. Only Liquidator, who rarely ate because of his unique physiology, had no plates at his setting. Instead he had a tall glass filled with flavored water.

Megavolt's gaze lingered on the happy scene around the kitchen table, and he tried not to dwell on the disconcerting thought of how easily it could all be shattered. "She was unconscious when I left, and so were her pets. I doubt she'll be able to come after us again tonight, even if she did know where we were… and how could she, if she didn't see what direction I went in when we left?"

"Yeah, witch magic usually needs something of the victim's to focus on. At least that's how all the movies go." Quackerjack looked at Megavolt. "She didn't take anything of yours, did you?"

Frowning as he tried to recall the encounter in detail with his fuzzy memory, Megavolt shook his head after a moment. "No. Not unless you count the chunk of my arm the mailbox had for its last call delivery."

Liquidator snickered. "Affix stamp here. The postal service will not deliver mail without proper postage."

Quackerjack laughed with him. "You're downright morbid sometimes, you know?"

"Hey, how about we stop talking about my severed flesh and get some dinner, huh?" suggested Megavolt.

Bushroot was the first to head over. "Sure. Last one there's a rotten eggplant."

"That sounds disgusting," Quackerjack said, making an exaggerated face.

"Oh, it's not a pretty sight. Trust me."

"What is?" asked a curious Tank as the rest of them, including Gosalyn, took their seats.

Liquidator held up a finger with a wry look on his fluid face. "Never mind. This conversation is one hundred percent inappropriate for the dinner table."

Gosalyn just giggled a little at that while she waited for her turn on the bowl as it was passed around the table. "Yeah, they shouldn't talk about gross stuff while we're eating." She wrinkled her dainty little beak a bit, although her green eyes were still alit with her usual cheer.

"Okay, what do we talk about then?" Quackerjack asked, and then glanced over at Mr. Banana Brain, arching an eyebrow as he did so. "Oh? Well of course we're interested in your two cents."

"Why don't you tell us how your days went, starting with _you_, Stu?" he had the banana doll reply.

"All right. If you insist." Quackerjack sat straighter in his seat and met the eyes of everyone at the table. Everyone, that was, except Tank, who took the moment of distraction to stealthily scoop a couple of forkfuls of Mr. Banana Brain's dinner onto his own plate, much to the amusement of the others. They kept mum while Tank quickly resumed his normal pose before Quackerjack's gaze shifted his way. "I got the latest buzz from our mole friend that does late night janitorial work in the S.H.U.S.H. building. He didn't have a whole lot new to say, but he did mention that he overheard a couple of bigwigs there complaining about some new high-profile risks in the city. He wasn't able to get names, but apparently one of them is in showbiz and put out some movie with 'vile anti-S.H.U.S.H. propaganda' in it that supposedly had a character that was a spoof of Negaduck who got humiliated and then killed while the oppressed people cheered his death. Really political. I haven't seen it, and our cleaning guy's not the brightest on the ol' Lite Brite panel, but I think we should try to see it for ourselves, both for a laugh and to get the name of this director and his pals."

Bushroot's bill curled into a wistful frown. "One downside of being on the run and watching your back all the time, it's not like you can just go out to a night at the movies, rent one, or even have cable in your name."

Tank leaned forward with a determined look on his face. "I may be able to acquire an electronic file of it on the internet. Although the ethics and legality of obtaining bootlegged movies is dubious, there are many who lack sufficient funds to purchase all of such things that they want and share what they have with fellow fans. With my knowledge of computers I could easily avoid the virus-laden sites and find a way to acquire it anonymously." He paused for a moment, and then added, "I think in this case a minor breach of the law for the greater good is justified."

"I think so too," Bushroot agreed.

Megavolt nodded along. "And since Adustan gave us permission to use his wireless connection, we do have internet. Just make sure you don't give out any information or hit any sites that'll get him in trouble."

"Agreed," said Liquidator. "After all, it takes a significant investment to gain a loyal customer, but only seconds to lose one."

"Don't worry. I'll do everything I can to stay anonymous," assured Tank. "They won't know it's us or him."

Bushroot looked over at Liquidator. "What about you? Did you find anywhere we could relocate to fast if need be?"

"No place with anywhere near the cleanliness and comfort of Megavolt's lovely light house abode. The best prospect is secure and would serve our needs, but we'd have to evict a number of four and six-legged occupants before I'd give it the Liquidator's guarantee of customer satisfaction."

Quackerjack had Mr. Banana Brain chime in, "Better than nothing, though. Right, Joe?" Quackerjack then nodded to his doll, acting as if Mr. Banana Brain had gone silent to listen again, and turned toward Bushroot. "What about you, Bushy?"

"It went okay. I got what I came for and got away without any trouble. The worst part was almost running into my sister at the back of the hospital, but she didn't see me and I didn't stick around to risk it." A silence fell over the table on that gloomy note, which served as a reminder to all of them of the truth that no matter how much better things got day by day, they still had a long way to go before their lives would even be somewhat normal, even if in many ways they were happier than they had been in their previous "normal" lives.

"Hey, don't worry about her," Gosalyn broke in with her sunny voice, cutting through the tense mood for all their sakes as much as Bushroot's. "You've got us."

Bushroot smiled at Gosalyn, once again amazed at how she could remain so full of hope, faith, and optimism in a world like theirs. "I know." He put a leafy hand on her shoulder and gave it a fond squeeze. "And I'm glad. We all are."

Quackerjack nodded enthusiastically. "You bet! Now that I don't have my old toy business anymore, having you kids to give them to and design them with is even more fun."

"Children do make far more animated and honest board members than at least ninety-five percent of the corporate type, wouldn't you agree, Quackerjack?" quipped Liquidator.

"You don't have to tell us twice, Bryce!" Mr. Banana Brain answered for Quackerjack while Tank sneaked two more forkfuls of pasta off of the doll's plate, grinning the whole time.

Gosalyn looked from Quackerjack to Liquidator thoughtfully. "Wow, that's right. You both used to run big companies, didn't you?"

A bittersweet smile formed on Quackerjack's oversized bill as he picked up his fork. "Yup. A long time ago, now." His voice took on an unusually wistful note while flashes of times and faces from the past danced through his mind.

Meanwhile, Liquidator traced his wet finger around the rim of his glass, looking even sadder than the former toy-maker as he thought about the business he had built from nearly nothing to the booming company it was now, and how it was now in the sole control of its board members while he was an outlaw with nothing to do with it any longer. "Feels like a lifetime ago." For Liquidator, it essentially was, since his mutation might as well have been the death of the flesh and blood persona he had lived most of his life as. Liquidator could never go back to Bud Flood's life. There was too much, to pardon the expression, water under the bridge for that.

"Same here, Licky," Megavolt said with a wan smile as he recalled his own past, and those he knew in his youth, the last time he had been anything even close to what was considered normal. "I've been Megavolt since I was… well, not all that much older than Tank. Since high school."

"Wow," Gosalyn said brightly, "that must make you the real expert of heroes with super-powers, then, if you've been one_ that_ long!"

Megavolt quirked an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm not that old, you know!"

Chuckling, Bushroot remarked, "At their age, we're all ancient."

"Speak for yourself. Age has nothing to do with maturity," Quackerjack harrumphed.

"You just insulted yourself, you dummy," Megavolt said, and then added in Mr. Banana Brain's direction, "No offense intended."

Everyone else at the table either chortled or grinned. "That round goes to Megavolt, I think," Bushroot said, and gave a sly look to Tank, who nodded in agreement as he scored a third helping off of Mr. Banana Brain's plate.

Gosalyn giggled again while Quackerjack gave them all a melodramatic pout. He shook his empty fork in playful warning and then dove in for a fresh forkful of his pasta, while Gosalyn looked over at Bushroot. "What about you? How long have you been like this?"

The question stirred old memories, ones that Bushroot would have preferred to not dredge up. "A while," he answered. "Longer than Liquidator, but not as long as Quackerjack or especially Megavolt."

"What did you do?" Her curious gaze remained fixed upon his green face.

The immediate answer that came to mind, "You don't really want to know," was not a fit answer to give, so he was glad when Tank interjected a short and simple one instead.

"You used to be a research scientist… a botanist if I am not mistaken." He looked at Bushroot. "Correct?"

Bushroot nodded. "Yes. I have a doctorate in botany and an undergraduate degree in the biological sciences."

"Oh, I know that," said Gosalyn. "I meant that I just wondered how long ago it was and what you did. Your research gave you your powers, right?"

A more somber look filled Bushroot's blue eyes as he found himself thinking about the very things he would just as soon have left forgotten. "Yes. That's right."

"Neat." Gosalyn eyed him with heightened curiosity. "How'd that happen? Were you looking for a way to talk to plants like you do now?"

More memories flashed through Bushroot's mind, and his bill curved downward in a melancholy and rueful expression far more pronounced than Liquidator or Quackerjack's. That was because while they had each also changed to some extent, the water dog in body and the toy-maker in outlook, Bushroot had done both. The mutant plant-duck Reginald Bushroot of the Friendly Four was nothing like the ruthless research duck that Dr. Reginald Bushroot had been. "No," Bushroot said after a long moment of hesitation. He did not like to think about that life anymore, let alone discuss it. "I was researching for the university, for projects in my area of expertise that were the most lucrative."

"You mean made the most money, right?" Gosalyn asked. There was no judgment in her tone; she was just making sure that she understood him correctly. While the Negaverse's Gosalyn was just as intelligent as the other-verse Gosalyn, and far more studious when given material to learn, living with Launchpad and following Negaduck's crazy orders meant that she had made it to school far less often than Darkwing's Gosalyn did, and as a result she did not quite have her vocabulary.

Bushroot nodded back to Gosalyn. "That was very important to them." He lowered his voice, which took on a note of shame as he continued to speak. "And me, back then." He met Gosalyn's eyes. "I wasn't the same kind of duck I am now, green skin, leaves, and roots aside. I—I wasn't very nice, Gosalyn. I was a real," he paused before using an inappropriate word, "a real jerk. I said and did things then that I would never do now… now that I've seen what can happen when you're like that, and how it affects the world around you. Now I know better."

"No, I can't imagine you being mean." Gosalyn smiled at him with more certainty and authority than a sweet nine-year-old girl should have been able to express.

"Well I can," Quackerjack interjected wryly. "Sure, he looks nice, and makes pretty flowers, but watch out if you accidentally catch his compost pile on fire when you race your toy cars down it."

"That's because it doesn't take being a rocket—or plant—scientist to realize that decomposing vegetation generates flammable gases, and that maybe it's not the brightest idea to race models with 'turbo boost flames' on it!"

Quackerjack could not help but giggle at the memory. While he had felt bad about setting his friend's compost on fire, the horrified look of both dumbfounded shock and anger on the plant-duck's face had been unintentionally hilarious to the quirky duck. Fortunately, no major damage had been done, and the blaze had been quickly extinguished before it could spread, but it seemed that Bushroot still held a small grudge over it. "Aw, I said I was sorry! And Licky put it out before anyone was hurt or anything else got wrecked."

"Free fire-fighting services at your beck and call are but one of the many valuable benefits of having the Liquidator on your heroic team!" the water dog chimed in.

"Yeah, I know. I still don't think it's that funny, though." Bushroot frowned, and subtly gestured to a fern in the room to come over and tickle the back of Quackerjack's exposed leg under the table. He did not see it coming, and once it got him, he jumped a mile, making a loud and amusing yelp as he flailed, leaving Bushroot grinning as he watched. "Now _that _was funny."

"I have to agree," Megavolt snickered, his eyes alit with mirth as he watched Quackerjack attempt to regain his composure.

"Well, aren't you two buttering each others' buns tonight?" Quackerjack huffed back in a playful tone. In retaliation he then lobbed a dinner roll at Megavolt, bouncing it right off of his nose. That sent both Quackerjack and Tank into a fit of laughter, while Gosalyn giggled, Bushroot chuckled, and Liquidator just grinned.

"Now remember, food fights are not a component of your nutritious dinner."

"Especially when Spike's not here to catch everything we drop," Bushroot pointed out with a smirk still on his bill.

"All right," Quackerjack said, conceding a playful defeat. "I'd offer it to Mr. Banana Brain, but… hey!" He glanced at Mr. Banana Brain's plate, which was nearly empty with its contents now in Tank's belly. "You really cleaned your plate tonight. I'm not sure you have room for dessert." He waggled his finger at Mr. Banana Brain, while Gosalyn turned back toward Bushroot.

"I still don't think you could've been that bad. If you were, you'd be like Negaduck and working for him, not against him."

While she smiled at him with the unshakable confidence of youth and innocence, Bushroot felt another pang of shame. He managed to return her smile, however, bolstered by her freely given love and support. He thought that it was a shame that it had taken him as long as it had to realize that such things were what mattered the most in life. "Well, I'm glad it didn't turn out that way, but if things had gone differently… I could well have been."

"Really? It's so hard to imagine. Don't you think so, Tank?"

He nodded along with Gosalyn, not speaking at first because he had just taken a hearty swig of his drink. Once he swallowed, he set his glass down and looked at Bushroot. "It is hard to picture you being anything but as nice as you've been to us. Even when you and the others fought against Negaduck and my family," he frowned as he mentioned them, "none of you have ever been deliberately cruel or hurtful." He scooted his chair a bit closer to the table with a curious look on his young face. "Perhaps you could tell us what it was like for you, and what made you decide to be a hero and join up with the Friendly Four?"

"Yeah! And the rest of you, too," Gosalyn agreed excitedly, looking over at Liquidator, Megavolt, and Quackerjack. "I'd love to hear about how you all became heroes. I don't think you've ever told us all the whole stories."

Quackerjack's eyes lit up with enthusiasm at that idea. "Oooh, fun! It'll be like an extended story hour. How about it, guys? Want to do that while we finish off dinner and before we go to bed?"

"I'd like that," Tank said.

Megavolt gave an agreeable nod. "Sure."

"You have the Liquidator's customer service guarantee for participation," Liquidator said, folding his aquatic hands together as he leaned back in his chair.

Once all the others had voiced their agreement, Bushroot met Gosalyn's eager expression and said with a soft smile, "Okay." A peaceful silence settled over the group for a moment, and Bushroot realized that all eyes were on him. "Oh… you want me to go first, huh?"

"She asked you first," Quackerjack pointed out, leaning onto the table with his elbow and resting the side of his head on his hand so that one of the tails of his jester hat just barely missed landing in his mostly-empty dinner plate.

"It'd only be polite, right?" Megavolt said before taking another bite of his dinner.

"Yes, I suppose so." Bushroot tried to ignore the unpleasant feelings attached to the memories of those dark days surrounding his mutation and the life he had led before it. He hoped that when he was finished telling the tale, Gosalyn and Tank would not think less of him. The other three already knew the worst of it, so he was not too concerned about their criticism or judgment, but the children had already seen plenty of terrible things in their lives and he could not bear to have them look at him as one of the bad seeds rather than a good one. Then again, Bushroot supposed, relationships built on lies and misconceptions were doomed anyhow. He had learned that lesson quite harshly back in those very days that Gosalyn had asked him to talk about. _And those who don't learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them, right?_

"It all started in my old research lab at St. Canard University," Bushroot began, "Lab #356, on a nice spring day. I was working for Dean Tightbill in the university's botanical and food sciences department, researching the metabolic processes of various plant species and how their concepts might be applied to other living systems…"


	2. Part One, Chapter One

**Origins of the Friendly Four  
By Cheezey**

**Part One: Bushroot  
Chapter One**

Hard at work in his lab, Dr. Reginald Bushroot was scrutinizing the contents of one of his flasks. It had tubes connected to it on both sides, one leading to a cantaloupe and the other to a small potted ficus that still, despite its trimmed-back state, towered over the short duck researcher at the bench. When he was finished, he made a few quick notes on his clipboard, and then moved along to another conglomeration of tubes, flasks, and hoses behind the cantaloupe. The fruit was vibrating slightly from a controlled electronic pulse that was being delivered to it through a probe connected to a machine wedged into the limited available space between the flask he had just examined and the equipment behind it. He gave the electric pulse generator a quick check to be sure that it was still at the right setting; it was an older model and the university's tight budget made getting any new equipment a miserable enough hassle that he made do with what he had until he could not stand to use it any longer. Dean Tightbill had a rule that anything the researchers ordered that cost more than a certain and painfully low price had to have a written and peer-reviewed justification complete with the requester's and two of his colleague's signatures on it before he would even consider purchasing it. Had he known about it, Reginald might have found some cynical humor in the fact that his other-verse counterpart had similar complaints about his own Dean Tightbill's extreme views on frugality in research. There may have been some stark differences between the Negaverse and Darkwing's realm, but Dean Tightbill's cheapness, like a number of other things, remained as universal as his and the other Dr. Reginald Bushroot's genetic code, voice inflection, and regrettable early male pattern baldness.

The Negaverse's Dr. Bushroot was quite different from his counterpart in a number of ways, though. Rather than shy and hesitant, with a kindly but often lonely plump face, that Reginald Bushroot's countenance had an undeniably hard edge to it, with a stern brow that made even their identical blue eyes seem different. His were as hard and calculating as the ones belonging to the other-verse Reginald Bushroot were bright and shrewd, taking a cruel look only when he was antagonized. In the Negaverse, the lab coat Reginald Bushroot wore to work was a dark shade of gray as opposed to the white one his counterpart wore, making a less bold contrast to his ashen-colored pants, black shirt, and black leather shoes. The only color of note in his attire was his tie—the only place that his other-verse counterpart wore black. It was a bold emerald green, the color of Reginald's favorite things in life: plants, money, and the eyes of the only woman that could distract him from thinking about the first as a means to earn more of the second, in the hopes of one day becoming the most successful researcher in his field or perhaps even the world.

As it so happened, that woman was on her way into his lab that very moment. She wore a coy smile on her beak and walked with a less subtle provocative sway in her stride as she approached the bench. She paused to lean against it with her chest pressed out and her hips curved outward in a way that left the finest assets of her figure right at the shorter researcher's eye level. Just as she expected, Reginald's clipboard was summarily forgotten and lowered, and he set his pen down and took a step closer to her. "Rhoda," he greeted her with a smile that spanned the length of his bill, one decidedly more licentious than the ones his other-verse self had given his Rhoda in their time together at work. "I thought you were inspecting the labs this morning." He had the crude thought that he would not mind giving _her _a close inspection in the lab, but he kept that to himself, at least while on the job.

The Rhoda Dendron of the Negaverse was every bit as intelligent as the Rhoda Darkwing Duck had met when he had first dealt with Bushroot in his realm, but unlike the gentle and warm-hearted duck who insisted on seeing the best in those she considered misunderstood, the Negaverse's Rhoda was ambitious and spiteful. While the other-world Rhoda felt sympathy for those who suffered, the Negaverse's Rhoda took perverse pleasure in it. What kindness she was capable of was reserved only for those she deemed worthy of it and who made it worth her while to bother…. such as the short and bald, but brilliant botanist whose lab she had come to visit, and whose company she kept on more intimate terms off the clock. It was not that she was attracted to his looks. In that sense, Reginald Bushroot was hopelessly average if not a bit below, but what he lacked in broad shoulders and big muscles, he made up for in brains, talent, and ambition. Ruthless on the job and willing to do whatever it took to get recognized and make it to the top, Rhoda knew that Reginald Bushroot was a duck that was going places. She wanted such success for herself, and a like-minded partner to share it with. Besides, she knew full well that a man like Reginald rarely caught the attention of attractive women several years his junior, especially ones that he could communicate with on academic as well as more personal levels. Having a woman like her as his girlfriend made him strive hard to keep her satisfied, and even though he was a botanist, Rhoda soon learned that he was also well-versed in anatomy and eager to ensure that she would have no inclination to look elsewhere for romantic attention.

Rhoda's eyes were alit with cruel mischief as she leaned even closer to Reginald, intentionally giving him a prime view of her cleavage, which was shown off just enough to not be inappropriate for the workplace in her figure-hugging dress. Unlike the simple purple dresses that her alternate preferred, hers was a rich and rosy mauve while her lab coat was a cool gray with a purplish undertone. Her shoes changed almost daily to match her outfit or mood, although the styles were all similar in that they had at least three inch heels for the added height to look down on others from, with the bonus of also making her seem taller and sexier. The hemline of her dress was much like its neckline, a length that was the bare minimum to still be considered professional. Unlike the Rhoda from other-verse who preferred a natural and simple look in hair and makeup, the Negaverse's Rhoda had oodles of high end creams and powders in a full spectrum of colors to coordinate with whatever look she was striving for. That day her eyes were lined with a warm brown and a soft pink shadow that made her look almost sweet—if one did not know her particularly well, anyway. "Yes, that's what I'm finishing up now," she answered him. "I'm almost done. I saved the best for last." She gave him a seductive wink as she said the last part, and then glanced around. "But I'm sure I won't find anything to write up in here, will I?"

Reginald stepped closer to Rhoda, eyeing her up and down with unashamed interest. "Of course not. You know I run a tight ship. No expired reagents, inappropriately stored chemicals, or blocked safety showers in here."

"Mmm-hmm." She faced him, putting her hand on her hip as she gave him a flirtatious smile. "I didn't think there would be. But you know," she said with a deliberate pause, "I will have to check all your equipment." She looked over at a water bath on the bench top and its log book that detailed when it had been serviced and calibrated.

"By all means." Reginald smiled back at her and tapped the back of his fingers against his clipboard as he watched her go from one log book to another. "So, did everyone else pass inspection?"

Looking up from the log book, Rhoda let out a dark chortle and lifted the current sheet on her own clipboard to show him the one beneath. "Oh no. This is the inspection sheet for the lab across the hall."

Reginald peered at the page and his eyes lit up with a cruel gleam of delight when he read the list of violations, all rather minor infractions except for some equipment past due for service or calibration, and a number of expired chemicals and solutions that had not been discarded as they should have been. "Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson ought to watch it. Dean Tightbill's threatened to cut one of the department's projects to free up resources, and you know how he hates frivolous waste." He sneered as he thought of the two inept fools who ran that lab. Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson, the two heavyset scientists who specialized in food science research in their department, were the two individuals that Reginald liked the least of any of his colleagues. Whatever value they had in scientific knowledge and expertise was overshadowed by their loud and boisterous demeanor in running what he and Rhoda had disgustedly dubbed "the party lab". Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson considered work a place to socialize as well as get the job done, and they always chummed up to and cracked jokes with the students that worked with them and the co-workers that they got along with. As opposed to their greedy, ruthless, and sycophantic counterparts in the other-verse, the Negaverse's Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson were outgoing and fun-loving individuals. Although Reginald could not deny that their research had some merit, their personal conduct and methods struck both him and Rhoda as childish and unprofessional, and neither could stand them. Reginald would have loved to see them both fired, but thus far his subtle machinations to bring that about had not proven fruitful.

"Not to mention their careless inattention to things that auditors would have a field day with, like using a pipette that's past due for calibration by three months on high priority research." Rhoda made a tsk-tsking noise as she pulled one of the pipettes in contention out of her pocket. "Would you believe that every single one in there was expired, even the one that Dr. Larson was using when I came in?" She raised an eyebrow and held the instrument out on her palm. The calibration label was indeed expired, but its signature and date were in Reginald's handwriting.

Chuckling along with her, he remarked, "I wonder how that got in there. All of mine are current."

Rhoda pulled open Reginald's pipette drawer with the smirk still on her beak and looked inside. All four pipettes in his possession were calibrated, two of which bore labels with Dr. Gary's handwriting and a third with Dr. Larson's. "A real mystery," she said with a wink, and bumped the drawer closed with a provocative swing of her hips. "Congratulations. You pass, free and clear."

"Thank you." He put his hand over Rhoda's, glancing only for a moment over at his experiment to be sure it was still running as it should be.

Their moment was interrupted when the door of the lab burst open, with an angry Dr. Gary storming in with Dr. Larson hot on his heels behind him. "I've had it with you, Reggie! This time you've pushed me too far."

Greeting them with an icy glare, Reginald folded his arms across his chest and stared harshly at both of the larger ducks. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, while Rhoda straightened to a stiff and disapproving stature, regarding them with equal distaste.

"This." Dr. Larson spoke almost in a hiss as he waved a pipette in his hand—one of the ones Reginald had stealthily switched into their lab just prior to the inspection. "Do you think you're above doing your own routine checks on your equipment, so you just come and steal ours and leave your expired ones in our lab for us to deal with?"

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Reginald. "If it _happened_ to wind up in the wrong lab, it was an accident. You must've picked up the wrong one while doing bench work in the common lab down the hall."

"Really?" sneered Dr. Gary. "Three different times? What, do you think we're stupid?"

With a sneer, Reginald retorted, "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"All right, Reggie," Dr. Larson said, stressing the nickname that the Reginald Bushroot of the Negaverse hated for anyone other than those closest to him to use, "We may not be able to prove it was you, but we're not going to forget that you got us a crapload of citations on that inspection from your girlfriend there."

Dr. Gary eyed the pair of them in disgust. "I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't write up a single thing in your lab."

Rhoda frowned. "Are you suggesting that I wouldn't write up a valid violation if I saw one?" Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "Unless you have some sort of proof to back up that accusation, you're out of line. The expired equipment was in your lab at the time of the inspection. Deal with it."

"Just like we have to 'deal with' the two expired reagents that aren't ours, but showed up miraculously in our cabinets right before inspection too, right?"

"Perhaps you should keep a better inventory of your own supplies." Reginald's tone was cold, and he added with an arrogant expression, "So save your excuses, justifications, and paranoid conspiracy theories for the dean when he grills you on the inspection results."

Rhoda tapped her fingers against the bench top. "If I was in your position, I'd dispose of the expired chemicals and re-calibrate the equipment before he reviews it. He'll be much more reasonable about it if the violations are already corrected when he reads my report… unless, of course, you plan to keep violating compliance regulations just to try and prove some point."

Dr. Larson glared at her. "How convenient that we'll have to throw out or re-label our proof."

"I've had it with you, and all of your fertilizer." Dr. Gary shook his fist in Reginald's direction, which led Reginald to roll his eyes.

"Oh, go and flip your burgers," he replied, referring to Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's current project. It was an experimental solution intended to enhance the flavor, size, and nutritional value of processed food products. Currently they were testing to see if it had any practical applications in fast food, which of course was notoriously unhealthy, but consumed by many for its convenience. A cruel smile formed at the edges of Reginald's bill as he then added, "It seems more in line with your true career calling anyway."

"How about _you_ bite my big burger?" Dr. Larson snapped back in response before storming back to his lab with an equally angry Dr. Gary right behind him. The heavy door slammed shut behind them as they departed, leaving both Reginald and Rhoda laughing viciously at them in their wake.

* * *

The next morning, Reginald came to work in an inspired mood. He had slept well, especially after the nice back rub Rhoda had given him the night before, but that was not what was on his mind as he donned his lab coat and got to work. The first thing he did, as always, was check on the experiment he had left going overnight. He noted the level of fluid in the still-bubbling flask and jotted down a quick note before placing a thermometer in it to check its temperature. He wrote the reading down and then checked on the cantaloupe attached to the flask by a tube. The fruit was significantly lighter in his hand than it had been the previous day, and he raised a curious eyebrow as he noticed that. It was drying out much faster than its predecessor, a pineapple, had. "Interesting," Reginald murmured as he made few more notes on his data sheet. He then put the clipboard down on the bench so that he could start another experiment, one he anticipated that would be finished within the workday.

Its starting point was a potato with eyes that had just begun to sprout. The tuber was average-sized, and certified organic as per the standards of his protocol. After cleaning it, he weighed it and then set it on a tray on the middle of the opposite bench. With gloved hands he inspected it until he located the six most prominent eyes, and he circled and labeled them numerically one through six with a permanent marker. Immediately afterward he attached tiny clamps with wires to the eyes labeled with odd numbers. He then pulled over a small bench-top unit that generated electrical impulses, and attached three of its outgoing wires to the ones attached to the ones on the clamps on the potato. After taking a moment to make some notes, Reginald set the voltage level on the machine to the protocol's specifications, and then stepped back to verify that it was all set up correctly. He did not turn the machine on just yet, however. There was one thing left that he needed to do.

Reginald went over to his laboratory's refrigerator and removed a solution in an amber flask labeled in his own handwriting _"Chloroplast Infusion Solution"_ with the previous week's date on it. It was a similar solution to the one brewing over on the other bench, although a few tweaks had been made to that formulation to see if it could be made more stable than the one Reginald had in his hands. The one prepared last week had shown promising potential, but early tests had determined that it was very unstable when exposed to light and warmer temperatures. While reactivity to light was a given when photosynthesis was involved, Reginald had hoped that it would be a little more stable than it was, considering the more complicated the formula was to store and keep, the less cost effective it would be to eventually produce and market. He drew up a syringe of the older formula with a carefully measured amount of the solution, and then quickly returned it to the refrigerator before he injected what he had taken into the potato. After disposing of the syringe, he turned the electrical impulse generator on, and made a few more notes on his paperwork.

He was just finishing that up when Rhoda came in. "Hey there," she greeted him sweetly as she approached the bench. That day she was wearing a figure-hugging violet dress, one that ran shorter than her lab coat did, and even though Reginald primarily had his research on his mind, he still took a moment to indulge in a leer as he answered her.

"Hello, Rhoda. How're things going?"

"All right. I just put load of samples into the centrifuge, so I thought I'd stop by while I had a few minutes while they're spinning down," she said. "What's this you're working on?"

"Just a little test to see if electricity will increase the uptake or effectiveness of my formula in the sprouting eyes of the potato. Another test I ran a few days ago with the same solution had some positive results with this one over here." He gestured to a clear plastic box containing a sprouted potato submerged in a thick and gooey concoction of water and potting soil set under a plant light. "It's growing faster than the control, over here." He pointed to a similar setup a few feet away that had significantly less growth on it.

Rhoda gave him a flattering smile. "Very impressive."

"Especially if this turns out to be viable, and my tweaks to the formula make it more stable without affecting its potency," Reginald said on a confident note. "If this works the way I hope it does, I'll have found a way to allow any living system—animal, fungi, what have you—to grow and obtain energy through photosynthesis like plants. Imagine not having to eat, to be able to survive without food. Do you know how much people would pay for that?" His blue eyes lit up with unabashed greed. "Especially organizations like S.H.U.S.H., to have a formula they could give to their best agents to make them nearly immune to the effects of starvation? Or the medical community, for a drug that would allow patients with advanced or untreatable disease affecting their digestive systems to have a completely new lease on life?"

"You'd be world-famous," Rhoda said, her own eyes gleaming with admiration. "The most respected and powerful scientist in the world, possibly. You could have anything you wanted." She leaned a little closer, and added on a more suggestive note, "Anything at all."

"I know." Reginald grinned, and placed his hand on top of Rhoda's for a moment before picking up his clipboard to check on the status of his brewing formula. Rhoda followed him, and was about to ask him a technical question pertaining to the experiment when, to both of their surprise, Dean Tightbill came in along with both Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson behind him.

"Dr. Bushroot," the dean said, his brusque no-nonsense tone catching both Reginald and Rhoda's attention immediately. Like everyone else in the Negaverse, Dean Tightbill was genetically identical to his counterpart in the other-verse, but aside from that and the frugal habits that fit his name, other aspects of his personality were sharply different. In the Negaverse, the dean was supportive of Reginald's plant-based research instead of critical of it. He also dressed far more casually—suits were expensive, after all!—and his demeanor was kindly and timid as opposed to hard-beaked and critical.

Reginald nodded to the dean as he entered and addressed him in his friendliest tone, one that struck both Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson as completely insincere and out of character for the Reginald Bushroot that they dealt with day in and day out. "Dean Tightbill, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?"

Dean Tightbill glanced over at Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson for a moment before continuing. "Ah, Dr. Bushroot, I'm afraid this isn't a pleasant social visit."

Frowning as he wondered what exactly the dean was talking about, and what his two smug-looking colleagues had to do with it, Reginald met the dean's gaze. "Oh?"

"While I was reviewing the recent lab inspection results with Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson, they brought some rather disturbing things to my attention, and upon further investigation, I'm afraid I have to look into it."

"Was there a problem with my inspection?" Rhoda asked with a nervous edge to her tone.

"No, Dr. Dendron, that was all fine. Although after this I do think we'll have to re-work the inspection procedure to look for more hazards, hazards that could be dangerous and cost us money." A look that all of Tightbill's employees dreaded crossed the dean's face—the one of him looking for ways to tighten the department's budgetary belt.

Rhoda's beak set into a slight frown. "What kind of hazards?"

"Electrical hazards," Dean Tightbill answered.

"Like this frayed cord on the sonicator," Dr. Larson said, holding up a cord attached to one of Reginald's lab machines. "This is the one I was telling you about earlier. Last month I tried to convince Dr. Bushroot to throw it out and replace it, but he insisted that you said to make do with what we had because we had to save money…"

Reginald narrowed his eyes. He had said that, more or less, but in the context of not biting on Dr. Larson's not-so-subtle hint that he should write up the justification for it because he had ordered the last one. After all, he had better things to do. If anything, Reginald felt those fools should be the ones doing mindless paperwork. "That's not quite what—"

Hitting the mild-mannered dean in the budget was one surefire way to rile him up, and just like Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson hoped, it worked like a charm. Dean Tightbill narrowed his eyes at Reginald. "Dr. Bushroot, a fire, even a small one, in one of these laboratories could cause extensive and expensive damage. Priceless research time and data could be lost. I'd have hoped that someone of your standing would understand that."

"Nothing in here is unsafe," Reginald argued, shooting a glare past the dean first at Dr. Larson, who was leaning against the bench by the potato experiment, and then at Dr. Gary, who was next to the nearly dried up cantaloupe.

Dr. Gary cleared his throat. "What about this? The voltage on this machine is in the red."

"What?" Reginald felt his blood pressure rise as he went over to see what Dr. Gary was talking about.

Dean Tightbill looked at the machine in question as well, and his eyes bulged when he saw that the voltage meter indicated that it was nearly at maximum. Up close, the faint smell of ozone could be detected, and the cantaloupe was shaking visibly on the counter. "Dr. Bushroot?"

Reginald's eyes went wide with both shock and anger. "I didn't have it set that high!"

"Oh, I'd hope not. Your protocol says it's only supposed to be half that," Dr. Gary said in an entirely-too "helpful" tone as he held up the paper, pointing to the voltage specifications. "You really should've replaced this machine sooner if its settings go off by that much."

"Or maybe you screwed with it!" Reginald glowered at the heavyset scientist.

Dr. Gary just smiled back at him in a way that made Reginald even madder. "Come on, Reggie, we're all professionals here, remember? I would never jeopardize science for petty revenge. That would be beneath the dignity of our profession, don't you think?"

Balling his hand into a fist that he was sorely tempted to slug into the smug scientist's bill, Reginald managed to rein in his temper long enough to use his other hand turn the voltage back to the proper setting while Dean Tightbill folded his arms across his chest and proceeded to lambaste him. "I thought I made it perfectly clear at our last department meeting that we need to conserve energy wherever possible in our research. The energy bills generated by our labs are higher than average, and the university is pushing efficiency. I told you all that I expected you to take all measures necessary to cut energy waste around here, especially since our budget's been cut." He shook his head. "And here you are, wasting it?"

"That's why we requested those new energy-efficient models in our lab last week, Dean Tightbill," Dr. Larson said after giving Reginald a complacent look, which made him scowl more deeply as he responded to the dean.

"Dean Tightbill, you know my experiments require a lot of energy."

"Yeah, all these plant lights must use a _ton _of energy," Dr. Gary remarked in a seemingly concerned tone. "Are these bulbs the energy saving type?"

Dean Tightbill gave Reginald a stern look. "Dr. Bushroot, I looked at how much energy your lab uses compared to others in the department. For the last three months, it's been the highest by a significant margin."

Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson exchanged melodramatic looks of alarm. "I had no idea that leaving the plant lights on _all night_ and _over the weekend_ used so much. Did you, Dr. Gary?"

"Absolutely not, Dr. Larson," the other bespectacled scientist replied.

"They're on a twelve hour timer, with an equal dark and light photo period just like the protocol says!" Reginald snapped, at that point nearly seething with rage. _How dare those waddling butterballs make me look bad in front of Tightbill?_

"You two do know what it means to follow a protocol, right?" Rhoda cut in curtly in Reginald's defense.

"Of course, Dr. Dendron," Dr. Larson replied coolly. "By the way, how long does yours allow samples to sit in the centrifuge before separating them?"

Rhoda narrowed her eyes at her colleague. "More time than's elapsed, I assure you."

Ignoring the sniping between Rhoda and the others, Dean Tightbill continued to address Reginald with an unmistakable look and tone of disappointment. "The point remains that this department cannot sustain a hemorrhage of funds on wasted electricity at this rate. I expect you to do a thorough audit of every device in this laboratory and—"

He was cut off by a loud sizzling noise, followed by a bang from the bench where Reginald's potato experiment had been running. The thick aroma of burning wires filled the room, and when they looked over, they saw smoke coming out of and sparks flying from the electrical impulse generator. The shock of the explosion knocked four bottles off of a nearby shelf, causing them to shatter and spill their contents all over the bench and floor. Fortunately, they did not contain anything flammable, but they did soak the potato, and the liquid hitting the already overheated spud caused it to blast out in a chunky and disgusting mess, much of which splattered directly onto Dean Tightbill's brand new thrift store pants.

"What?" Reginald raced over to his bench top only to discover that the electrical impulse generator had been turned up to maximum as well, while Dr. Larson sneered back at him with an expression that wordlessly said, _Payback's a bitch._

"My experimental spud!" he exclaimed in outrage, waving his fist furiously in Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's general direction. "You sabotaged my experiment!"

Dean Tightbill wiped the potato chunks off of him with a look of disgust. "Dr. Bushroot, you ought to be thanking them for bringing this fire trap you call a laboratory to my attention before you or anyone else got injured in here, not blaming them for your oversights and corner-cutting." He shook his head. "I regret that it's come to this, but…" the dean's voice trailed off with a sad shake of his head, "I knew I'd have to cut one of the projects in this department by the end of the month anyway. I hadn't decided which, yet, but in light of today's incidents, it's clear which researcher is the least cost-effective to keep."

Reginald's eyes widened in shock as the implication of what the dean was saying sunk in. "But Dean Tightbill…"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Bushroot, but I'm afraid your ambition has overridden your common sense, and that makes you a liability. No matter how innovative your projects might be, they're of no use to me or the university if they burn down our lab or risk the well-being of our researchers. This mess alone will cost a hefty chunk of the budget to clean up, not to mention the cost of replacing the broken equipment and the time lost. That loss has to be made up somewhere." He frowned. "Go and gather your things, Dr. Bushroot. I'd rather not have a scene where calling security will be necessary." He turned to the other three. "The rest of you, please return to your labs. I'll have maintenance sent here to take care of this mess."

With that, the dean departed, and Reginald watched him leave with a numb feeling of shock. It was incomprehensible to him that he had just been set up by the two morons across the hall to be fired, the ones _he_ had been trying to get canned, and his blood boiled with rage. "You two…" There was a murderous gleam in his eyes as he faced Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson, while Rhoda put a hand on Reginald's shoulder and squeezed it.

"Don't worry, Reginald. With your experience and qualifications, you'll be able to get a job anywhere you want."

"Yeah," cackled Dr. Gary, holding up a chunk of the exploded potato and then tossing it casually from hand to hand. "Asking 'do you want fries with that?'"

While Dr. Larson joined his lab partner in a round of raucous laughter, Reginald's hands curled into tight fists while his entire body trembled with fury and hatred. "You'll pay for this. You're going to be very sorry the next time you cross paths with me."

That just made Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson laugh louder as they headed for the door. "Sorry, I'm not planning on drive through tonight," Dr. Larson snorted through his laughter, much to the amusement of Dr. Gary, who laughed louder right along with him as the two of them left, leaving the fuming Reginald and a scowling Rhoda behind.

"Reginald—" Rhoda began, but he broke away from her.

"Just go back to work, Rhoda. I'll talk to you later."

She frowned, but stepped back and did not argue. "I'll come by tonight," she said from the doorway.

Heading for one of the lab benches, Reginald said tersely, "I'll be at the greenhouse. Meet me there."

"Okay." Rhoda shut the door behind her, leaving him alone. Reginald paused only long enough to grab his coat, his keys, and two flasks—the one in the refrigerator that he had used with his potato, and the still-bubbling one on the bench. With those in hand, Dr. Reginald Bushroot then left Lab #356 as an employee for the last time.


	3. Part One, Chapter Two

**Origins of the Friendly Four  
By Cheezey**

**Part One: Bushroot  
Chapter Two**

The rest of Reginald's afternoon and evening was spent re-constructing his experiment in his greenhouse, which was also his personal laboratory. Just like his other-verse double, the Reginald Bushroot of the Negaverse had the same style greenhouse on the same property on the outskirts of St. Canard. At the time they even had a number of similar plants growing, albeit for different reasons and purposes. The set-up that Reginald was working on was the very same one that his double had built, with the same parts and same purpose in mind. Even their motivation was similar, although in the Negaverse Reginald Bushroot was not concerned about getting his job back as much as he was with proving to the fools at the university that they had just made a very big and costly mistake in cutting him loose. "When they see what a success it is, someone with even more money will fund this project," he said determinedly. "And when they do, I'll rub it in all their faces, the ungrateful little fungi!"

He was so caught up in working on his experiment that he did not notice how late it had gotten, except that it was dark and beginning to rain when Rhoda finally joined him. "Reginald?" Rhoda made her way down the greenhouse's center aisle, looking for him. She called out again when she received no answer. "Reginald?" Finally she spotted him at the console of his newly put together apparatus, which had two platforms wired up to it. There was a potted plant upon one, while the other was empty. She came up behind Reginald and put a hand on his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

Reginald only looked up from his work for a moment to answer. "If the university's too short-sighted to appreciate my genius, then I'll just have to finish my experiment and prove my theories without their money."

Rhoda eyed the platforms, the console, and then finally him with a curious look. "How?"

"By running it myself."

"On what?" the stunned Rhoda asked. "What subject?"

The smile that Reginald gave her when he looked up was enough to send chills down almost anyone's spine. "Are you volunteering?"

Startled, Rhoda stared back at him. "Are you kidding?"

"Actually, yes," he replied, resuming a normal expression. "I plan to run it on myself. _That's_ how sure I am that it'll work." He smiled at her confidently. "The formula I was brewing this morning is indeed more stable than my old formulation, and I've already got the calculations for my size and frame worked out."

"You don't think it's dangerous?" Rhoda's voice held a note of concern.

"There's always a risk, but as they say, fortune favors the bold." He entered a sequence onto the key pad of his machine and then turned to Rhoda. "I'm glad you came. You'll be the first to witness my success. I can't think of anyone better to share it with."

Rhoda smiled at Reginald, and bent over and kissed the tip of his bill. "Do you want my help?"

"Thank you, my dear, but I've got it all automated because I'd planned on carrying it all out myself." He paused and gave her a wink. "But it never hurts to have someone watch the controls in case of a glitch, or to have my lovely lab partner give me a kiss for good luck."

Lowering her eyes in a sultry manner, Rhoda drew him close and smooched him again. Seeing the lengths that he was willing to go to in order to succeed and prove himself to the world only heightened her admiration for him. "Good luck. If it works, I'll give you something a little better to celebrate."

Her innuendo was not lost, and with that added motivation in mind, Reginald climbed onto the empty platform and strapped himself on to it with a grin on his bill. He picked up a wrist cuff attached to a tube connected to the plant on the other platform and attached it to his arm. "Here's to the advancement of science!" Reginald then shoved the lever beside him downward, and the machine came to life with a loud hum and a series of beeps. Rhoda watched in fascination as the platforms began to rise up into the air, past the panels that automatically opened on his greenhouse roof, and into the stormy night above.

Lightning crashed all around, and the sound of thunder filled the sky above as Rhoda stared, rapt, while the stormy light flickered in the reflection of her glasses. The power in the lab began to blink, and up on the platform, Reginald's voice froze in his throat as a surge of energy coursed through his body. It seemed to touch and stimulate him from head to webbed food, in every cell and in every neuron. His formula, glowing an unearthly bright green, flowed between him and the plant on the other platform while energy continued to channel through them both. A sharp scent tainted the air as the plant began to sizzle, all of its moisture evaporating from it at an astonishing rate. Reginald felt a strange sensation begin to flow through him, one that had nothing to do with the rain that whirled around and drenched him, but like a cool new lifeblood entering his body. It was the last thing that he remembered feeling before he lost consciousness.

Once the programmed amount of time had elapsed, the platforms lowered themselves back to ground level, and an anxious Rhoda raced over to Reginald as the machinery came to a halt and the ceiling panels above closed once more. "Reginald!" Rhoda reached for him, only to jump back with a start when a residual static charge zapped her as soon as she brushed against the table. She gave the platform an offended glare and then reached, more carefully that time, over her lover's still form. "Reginald?" she murmured, touching the side of his face. "Are you all right?"

He remained unconscious, much to her unease, and she prodded him again, that time a little more roughly. He still did not stir, so she felt his neck for a pulse. Rhoda let out a sigh of relief when she found it, somewhat elevated and faint, but consistent and most importantly, there. She also felt a light movement of air against the feathers on her arm and saw a slight rise in his chest, indicating that he was breathing. She laid her hand upon him and smiled faintly as she then experienced an odd sensation against the fabric of his clothes, almost like the vibration that his fruits and vegetables in the lab had in his experiments. "Incredible," she whispered, leaving her hand there for a moment to feel it more fully before trying to rouse him once more. "Reginald?"

His blue eyes blinked open, but he felt too drained to do more than stare up at her and manage a whisper. "Rhoda?"

"How do you feel?" Her eyes were wide with concern as she looked down at him. "Can you move?"

Reginald stirred a slight bit in response, but it felt like it took all of his energy to do so. "Yes. But I'm tired." He closed his eyes and rolled his head to the side, against her hand.

"You've been through a lot. Your experiment, remember?"

"Mmm-hmm…." His voice quieted to barely a whisper.

Rhoda stood there silently for a moment, watching him, and then decided to just let him sleep if that was what his body craved and needed after that. With a frown she looked around for something comfortable to sit or lie down on, as she did not want to leave him alone in case he took an unexpected turn for the worse. Unfortunately, she had not anticipated spending the night in his humid and dirty greenhouse when she had come over. Even if she did have her overnight bag in the car, she had expected that it would be utilized in his apartment, where there was a bed to sleep on. "Great," she muttered, giving her surroundings an irritable and prissy look. "I guess I'll have to sleep in my car." She leaned over and caressed the top of Reginald's head. "You're lucky I'm a sucker for mad scientists. But don't think that I won't expect a nice dinner out for this." She ruffled the thin feathers on his head once more and then settled in for her impromptu camp-out.

* * *

When Reginald awoke the following morning, the sun was shining brightly and the previous night's storm had long since passed. He sat up and blinked, and it was then that he noticed a small piece of paper folded beneath where his arm had been. Frowning, he opened it and read the note inside. _Sorry I had to leave, but I wanted to make sure I got in to work early enough to get the good equipment out of your lab before those losers grab it. Call me when you wake up. If I don't hear from you, I'll be back at lunch. –R. _

"I'm not sure whether to be glad or annoyed that she left me to loot out my old lab before those cretins do," Reginald muttered. He supposed he should not have expected otherwise; Rhoda was just as determined to advance in her career as he was, and in all honesty he would rather that she got his stuff if it meant that Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson would not. His scowl returned as he thought about them, and the low they had sunk him to, using himself as a guinea pig to prove the validity of his research.

Thinking about his research led Reginald to then glance down at himself, at his body, his hands, and his feet. They all looked… normal. He felt…

"Normal," he groaned out loud. "I feel completely normal." He rubbed his head. _Except for the fact that my legs feel like wood,_ he thought as he unsteadily got to his feet. _But that's probably just from absorbing a billion volts of electricity._ "It's a failure," Reginald grumbled incredulously, as if he could not believe that it was possible that his ingenious research had no effect on him whatsoever. "My work, all that work, and all it does is give me a hangover?"

He slammed his fists against the metal table, seething. "I hate them!" The smug faces of Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson flashed before his eyes. "Those two… two… worthless fungal parasites!" he finished furiously. His gaze then fell upon the charred husk of the plant that had been used on the other half of the experiment, and his angry frown deepened. "And you… oh, my best heirloom nycanthropus, I destroyed you for nothing." He ran his fingertips across the burned roots in the soil. He had used his favorite specimen of that type because he knew what an adaptable and long-lived perennial that species was. Further irritated by the loss of one of his prized plants on top of everything else, Reginald then brushed his hands together to get the soil off of them and headed for the door. "I think I need some fresh air."

When he first stepped into the morning sunlight, he did not feel anything noteworthy except for yet another dizzying moment that made his legs wobble. A moment later, though, he felt something unlike anything he had ever felt before. A jolt. It was almost like someone had taken caffeine and injected it directly into his veins. Reginald paused and looked up, and the bright and warm face of the sun bore down on him. At first he shielded his eyes from it out of habit, but then he realized, strangely, that it was not hurting them. If anything, the light seemed to sharpen his vision.

"What?"

Then all of a sudden his body convulsed, and he had to struggle to remain standing. He barely had time to catch his breath before it happened again, and then again, and then to his amazement, Reginald felt like he had more energy than he had ever had in his life. The sudden realization of his success struck him even more powerfully than the brilliant light of the sun.

"It worked!" He gasped in amazement as he ran toward the hilltop, toward the beautiful and bright life-giving star in the sky. His senses came to life like nothing he had ever imagined as he embraced that morning sunlight, and he felt almost like he could reach up into the sky and clouds to join them. _Is this what it feels like to get high? _Reginald wondered as a rapturous grin spanned his bill.

As he stared upward, however, something strange and sobering shook him out of his sunny reverie. "My hand," he said, bringing it closer to his face for inspection, "it's green!" He winced a bit. "Ooh, now that's an unanticipated side effect." His wince changed to a pensive frown. "But considering I can get energy directly from the sun, I suppose there are worse adverse effects this could've had." As soon as he was finished speaking his body began to convulse again, and he felt more strange changes happening to it. All of a sudden his feathery skin began to turn green all over, and with each passing moment he could feel his clothes hanging looser and baggier on him.

By the time Reginald made it back to the greenhouse, the entire top of his head was tingling and he could feel something growing there that had not been there before. _Am I getting my hair back? _He got his answer when he reached for the greenhouse door and caught sight of a ghostly reflection of himself in the glass. The face looking back at him was barely his own.

"Son of a broccoli!" Reginald brought his hand, now vaguely shaped like a leaf, to his face and then smoothed it over the top of his head. He now had a purplish mane of hair that, when he touched it, felt somewhat like a mixture of of flower petals and corn silk, with three prominent stamens growing out of the center. The sight left him speechless for several moments as he acquainted himself with the reality of his new shape and body, and he tore off his clothing without a thought or care to modesty as he determined the extent of his metamorphosis. He was stunned to see that from his belly down he was now brown, skinny as a rail, and at a touch, his flesh had changed from feathers and skin to a root-like material.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Well, now that I practically am a flower, I guess at least I can save money not having to buy them for Rhoda when she gets in one of her moods," he quipped as he leaned against the side of his greenhouse.

He remained there for a few moments trying to come to terms with what had just happened until the sound of a soft meow at his feet jolted him out of his thoughts. When he looked down, he saw a cat that often ran around in his field regarding him with a puzzled look. "What do you want?" he grumbled at it as it came closer. The cat did not answer, of course, but it did begin to rub against him. _That's odd. This cat's always been skittish and usually runs whenever I get near it,_ Reginald thought as he looked down at it. He wondered if the feline's newfound friendliness had anything to do with his new body's different and perhaps non-threatening plant scent. His ruminations were brought to a halt, however, when he felt a sharp and painful digging sensation in his leg.

"Ow! Hey! Stop that!" Reginald shouted at the cat that was now sharpening its claws in his flesh, or the plant equivalent of it at any rate. He swatted at the cat with one of his now leaf-like hands, but the cat was only put off for a moment before it tried to jump on him again. "Stop that! Don't climb me!" he protested, reaching with his now extraordinarily thin vine-like arms to try and detach the feline. His new limbs did not move quite the same as the ones on his old duck body did, however, and his thin leaf fingers, while still as strong as the ones he used to have, did not feel or grip exactly the same way. It was frustrating to try and get used to all of that while also attempting to shoo away an annoying cat, but once he finally did manage it, to his dismay it still tried to follow him.

Scowling, he shouted at it, "Scat! Get lost! Go catch some mice or something, will you?" The cat did not obey, though, and rather than flail uselessly at it further, Reginald turned and ran inside his greenhouse. Unfortunately, the cat darted in behind him before he could shut the door.

"Get out, will you?" He glanced around angrily. "Argh! Where's that broom?" Before he could spot and grab it, however, a large fern by the door beat him to the punch. To his amazement, the plant reached out of its pot and forcefully whisked the feline out the door. His bill dropped open in shock as then, without missing a beat, the hibiscus on the opposite side of the door reached out and slammed it shut before the cat could come back in.

"Thanks," the stunned Reginald said automatically, while his brain attempted to process the fact that he had just thanked his plants for evicting the neighborhood stray. "Wait a minute. I didn't just see what I thought I saw, did I?" He slapped the side of his now green head. Just how many volts to his brain tissue had he taken on that table last night?

To his complete shock, Reginald then heard two faint and cheerful voices echo in his mind, almost like a whisper upon the breeze. _You're welcome._ He could have sworn they came from the fern and hibiscus. Blinking, he took a few steps toward them. "You moved and… talked?" He tried to reconcile what he was experiencing with every law of biology and physics that he knew, but he found no explanation other than brain damage or experiment-induced schizophrenia.

"This can't be real." He turned around, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "I need to sit down." He stumbled back two steps only to fall into a seated position in a chair that had not been there a moment ago. When he opened his eyes, he discovered that the chair was made of giant yellow tulip petals. "Is this… is this really happening?" He tapped the plant-chair to verify that it was actually there and not a hallucination. It felt as solid as could be, and at that point he decided that he had either gone completely crazy, or his experiment was far more successful than he could have ever imagined.

"Oh," he groaned. His throat was dry and his mind was spinning. "Oh, I could use a drink about now."

In response to that he heard another whisper in his mind, that one too faint to make out clearly. A second later, a nearby hosta plant reached toward him with one of its long green leaves cupped full of water, which it then dumped onto the greenhouse's earthen floor by his feet. When the water splashed against his root-like skin, he could feel it drink it in to try and quench his thirst. Staring in disbelief, Reginald proceeded to dip one of his toes—no longer webbed, but long, spindly, and root-like—into the puddle, and he felt that water enter his body and sate his thirst even though it had never passed his bill. "It's turned me into a plant," he whispered in shock. "A half-plant, half-duck." He touched his bill, which had not changed at all. Reginald then looked at the plants in his greenhouse, all around him, and for the first time, he saw them in a new light, swaying gently, whispering to him. "They know me… they can talk to me…"

A tomato plant reached over and offered him one of its ripe fruits for a snack.

"No, thank you. Maybe later," he told it as he took the offering and set it down on one of his work benches. His mind reeled with the implications and possibilities of his newly transformed body and abilities. "I wonder if it's just you, my plants that I've raised, that can hear me, or if it's all plants?"

He opened the door and went back outside. The cat was gone, leaving the grassy field surrounding his greenhouse at his disposal without distraction. He pointed his hand at a patch of grass. "Can you grow for me?"

Immediately the grass doubled in height, and then tripled, right before his eyes.

"Wow, okay, that's enough!" he said, holding out his hand in a halting gesture as an excited smile spread across his bill. _The ability to control plants… to have them do whatever I want… it's all mine._ To test his ability further, he looked to a dandelion patch and had it grow larger, and then asked it if it could move to a new spot ten feet away and re-root there. He was amazed when it did so perfectly, without hesitation and without any harm to the plant itself. _This is incredible._ _If I wanted, I could have a veritable army at my disposal._ The gleam in Reginald Bushroot's eyes turned darker and more devious as his thoughts turned to certain invasive plants, and how in nature, they could take over anything in a relatively short time. _With my powers, they could choke out anything in their path._ The faces of two individuals deserving such treatment flashed once again through his mind, and the fire of revenge burned hotter in his soul.

* * *

The mutant plant-duck that was once Reginald Bushroot was so caught up in experimenting with his newfound abilities that he completely forgot about calling Rhoda at work to let her know that he was fine. It was only when midday came around, and she showed up at his greenhouse, that he remembered that he had forgotten to call. "Reginald?" she called out as she came in. "Reginald, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Rhoda. Excellent, considering," he shouted back from the bench he was working at. She followed the sound of his voice until she caught up with him, but when she saw the green plant-duck standing there where she had expected to see her bald duck boyfriend, she gasped. He gave her a reassuring look and said, "It's okay. I know it's probably a shock, but—"

"Probably a shock?" Rhoda repeated on a shrill and incredulous note. "Have you taken a _look_ at yourself? What happened?"

Bushroot shrugged, his vine-like arms making the gesture seem exaggerated in their spindly length, and he smiled at her. "My improved chloroplast infusion solution was a success."

"A success?" Rhoda blinked as she gawked at him, her eyes wide behind her glasses. "It was supposed to turn you," she paused as she searched for an appropriate word, "green? And your arms, and your legs, your face… oh my god."

"Well, as you know, I only got to run a handful of in-vitro tests in animal plasma, and that one screening experiment with mice. I wasn't really sure what to expect, since that was with my old formulation, but, uh," he met her eyes and held out his leaf-like hand, "it definitely worked." He flexed his thin green fingers. "I've been out in the sun all morning and I feel stronger than ever. It's incredible, Rhoda! I can photosynthesize just like plants! But that's not all."

Rhoda just stared back at him. "Obviously," she said after a moment. "You're green."

"Yes, I noticed that too," Bushroot replied with a wink.

"And you have hair. Purple hair."

"I know! Makes me feel like a kid again; that's about how long it's been since I've had this much." He chortled and approached her, holding out a shock of his hair-like foliage. "Feel it, though. It's not hair, not exactly. It's more like very fine petals."

Gingerly Rhoda reached out and touched the hair-like growth, still stunned by the transformation he had undergone. Although she had not known exactly what to expect when she touched the purple strands, they felt soft and silken on her fingertips. "Yes, like a flower, a thistle, something like that." Rhoda's fingertips drifted from his hair to his cheek and then to the side of his beak. "Your feathers, they're—"

"Pretty much gone, yeah," Bushroot confirmed. "My skin's either like the stem of a plant or the root of one. It's pretty amazing. It transpires like it, too. Did you know I held my breath for ten minutes straight earlier to see if I still needed to breathe like a regular duck? I don't. Only if I want to talk." He beamed at her, and took her hand in his when he noticed that she was still almost speechless, staring back at him. "But that's not the most amazing part."

"It's not?" Rhoda could not imagine what could trump what she was seeing in front of her as even more incredible than the full body metamorphosis he had experienced.

Bushroot shook his head. "No. I can talk to plants… and they talk back."

"What?"

"Not only do they talk, but they move, too! All at my suggestion or command."

"You can talk to and control plants?" Rhoda repeated, incredulous.

Bushroot decided that the best way to show her what he was talking about was through a demonstration. "Pick out a plant in here. Or outside. Any plant at all."

"Okay." She gestured to a potted rose bush nearby. "That rose."

"Excellent choice." Bushroot grinned and held out his leafy hand with the palm up in the direction of the rose bush. Staring at it, he made a small motion with his fingertips like he was asking it to come up, or climb, and to Rhoda's amazement, the previously inert bush began to grow thicker and bigger, outward and up, right before her very eyes. She watched in amazement as buds began to form and grow upon the bush, until finally one of them opened into a brilliant red bloom. Bushroot then reached for it, and it detached itself without even having to be plucked, as if the plant itself had given the flower to him. He then bowed dramatically and handed the rose to Rhoda. "A little something for you, my dear, the only thing that could outshine its beauty."

Rhoda smiled back at him and accepted the flower; she never was one to turn down gifts and was always was a sucker for flattery. "Well, thank you, Reginald. It's very—ow!" She dropped the flower, but Bushroot caught it, while she shook her hand.

"Oh, I didn't realize it had a thorn there. Sorry."

"It's all right." Rhoda took the flower back, mindful of the thorn that Bushroot suddenly realized had sprouted as soon as he had voiced his comparison of Rhoda's looks to the plant's. He also felt a prissy and put-out vibe now coming from the rose bush.

_Women are the same everywhere, I guess,_ Bushroot thought wryly, while Rhoda sniffed at the rose's pleasant scent before setting it down on a workbench. "But don't you see how incredible this is?" he said to her. "I'm the first duck to ever really be able to communicate with the plant kingdom, and understand them like one of them. Think of the possibilities, Rhoda. The rose is just a small sample of what I can do." Bushroot eyed her enthusiastically. "I can sprout seeds from bare dirt, summon vines and grasses, even saplings from nothing. I can coax new growth on dead limbs, or make trees and shrubs flower and fruit out of season. Look at that apple tree out there." He pointed through the greenhouse's clear panes at a well-seasoned apple tree in his field in the distance. Its branches were full of harvest-ready fruit, which would not have been that spectacular a sight except that it was something one might expect to see in August or September as opposed to early April.

"That is incredible." Rhoda gave him an impressed look. "You discovered you had all these abilities this morning?"

Bushroot nodded. "It was like my formula was dormant in my system until I stepped into direct sunlight and then… bam! First my body transformed, and then I discovered my telepathic link to the plants, and then my ability to directly impact the growth and motion of flora."

"Growth and motion?" Rhoda repeated. "Are you saying you can make them move beyond the growth experiment you just showed me with the rose?"

"Oh, yes! Just watch." Bushroot gestured to a set of six sprouted squash plants in a flat. "Hey guys! The best sun for the afternoon is over there." He pointed to a clear spot on the floor across the aisle from them near the wall. "Why don't you go check it out?" As if they had heard him, the little seedlings carefully wriggled themselves out of the dirt, surrounded their flat, and picked it up. In a team effort they jumped off of the table with it and carried it to the sunny area, where they plunked it down and then climbed back into their respective sections. The seedlings then stretched out, basking happily in the afternoon sun while Rhoda watched with awe.

"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it." She looked at Bushroot. "This is amazing!"

"And that's just a simple task. They'll do lots more than that, and work together in coordinated efforts like that with almost minimal direction. I can literally landscape my entire property, or anyone else's, with my mind." A craftier and more devious look filled his eyes. "I can make them do just about anything."

"I can imagine." Rhoda reached over and stroked the side of Bushroot's face, giving him an admiring look. "It's a shame that it had to turn you into this to do it."

"It's not so bad." Bushroot smiled knowingly at her. "I now have control over my body that bodybuilders and Zen gurus would envy."

A wry smile crossed Rhoda's beak. "Perhaps, but you might have a hard time landing another job looking like this."

Bushroot let out a dark chortle. "With powers like these, who needs a job?"

"And what, exactly, are you thinking you might do with this newfound knowledge and free time now that you're unemployed?" Rhoda asked with a conspiring gleam in her eyes.

"It's awful hard to arrest a plant for larceny, even if they do catch it."

"From scientist to petty thief," Rhoda purred as she slid an arm around his shoulders. "I'd have thought an ambitious man like you would reach higher than that."

"Ah, but I never told you how much I planned to take, or from where." Bushroot wrapped one of his vine-like arms around her waist, enjoying her flirtatious attention. He was pleased to notice that regardless of the plant-like qualities his new body had, she still felt divine to the touch and stirred desires in him that reminded him that no matter how green he was, he was still at least part duck. "I have a grand vision of a huge, state of the art lab where I can do whatever I want, experiment any way I please, with no constraints of budget, committees, or tail feathers to kiss to get the funding I need or signatures on my protocols. No whiny student protesters complaining about ethics and morality when they haven't lived or worked in the real world one day in their life, no senile board members with PhDs from half a century ago making calls on my projects when they don't even understand them, and no cheap equipment that breaks or makes the research ten times more tedious than it needs to be. Imagine it, Rhoda."

A knowing giggle escaped from her beak. "It sounds wonderful. I may just have to quit the university and come work for you." She smooched the end of his bill.

"You'd be the only one from there worth hiring." His gaze drifted from her pretty face to her cleavage, amply showed off in yet another one of her tight dresses. "Maybe you could, ah," Bushroot grinned suggestively, "take the rest of the afternoon to interview?"

"Skip work?" Rhoda smirked. "I'd better be careful, or_ I'll_ wind up being fired." She twirled her fingertips around in Bushroot's purple petal-hair. "This position will have to be worth my while."

He chuckled. "There are a lot of positions you could try. Why don't you let me show you the ropes… or the vines, as the case may be?"

Before Rhoda could respond, two vines sprouted from the dirt floor on either side of her. One snaked up the side of her leg and wound around her thigh just beneath the hemline of her short dress. She let out a squeal as the second one grew higher along her other leg and traced the curve of her hip before winding around her back and curling around her rib cage just under her breasts. "Reginald!"

The grin on Bushroot's bill grew wider. "Don't mind them, they're just playing. Certain plants will really grow on you, if you let them." He pulled the vine-bound Rhoda close against him and looked at her with passion in his eyes.

She was somewhat unnerved, but even more excited by the strangeness of it all, and she looked back at him with a curious expression. "So does this mean you still can…?"

Bushroot's smile took on a distinctly perverse bent as he eyed the lovely Rhoda half-bound, hot, and helpless in his vines. "Let's experiment and find out."

* * *

Much later, Rhoda rolled back lazily in the patch of ornamental grass that Bushroot had grown in the back of his greenhouse to accommodate their impromptu afternoon tryst. There was a quizzical look in her eyes behind her glasses, which were the only thing that she still wore. Bushroot leaned up on one viney elbow and grinned down at her with the same look he always wore afterward… oddly, still very recognizable despite the fact that he now was green and made of leaf, root, and petal as opposed to feathers and flesh. Rhoda found it a bit hard to believe that she had actually just been intimate with him like that, and even more so that she had enjoyed it as much as she did. Who knew that plants and their vines could _do _that? She wondered if that meant that she had some kind of odd fetish, although she was not overly concerned about the matter. There were more important questions than that on her mind.

"So tell me," she said, twirling a blade of grass in her fingers, "what do you plan to do first with your new powers?"

Bushroot raised his eyebrows and let out a smug chuckle. "I thought we already did that."

"Very funny," Rhoda retorted. "But I'm being serious. Are you going to break into a lab to start getting the equipment you want?"

"Soon," Bushroot told her. "I need to scout out a few places first. I know the lab back at the university won't be worth bothering with, with how cheap they are." The dark gleam flashed through his blue eyes again. "The only thing I plan to go back there for is revenge."

Rhoda eyed him with piqued interest. "You're going to teach Larson and Gary a lesson?"

"Oh yes." His smile took on a sinister curl. "And Dean Tightbill, too." Bushroot smoothed his leafy hand over the soft downy feathers on Rhoda's arm and then down over her belly. "Now that I know how strong my vines are, and that they can restrain a wriggling adult body with no problem," he drew his gaze slowly toward her face, indulging in the opportunity to leer at her, "I can whip some healthy fear and respect into them. Those idiots will never make the mistake of screwing with me again."

The dangerous note in his voice led Rhoda to pull herself closer to him and kiss the underside of his bill. "You should do them permanent damage."

Bushroot closed his eyes as the edge of her beak nibbled at his chin in delicious ways. "Ooh, make their bodies match their brains, you mean?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Well, you couldn't _possibly_ make them uglier," Rhoda murmured in a soft and seductive tone. "But imagine how it would feel to whip or crush them with a vine and make them beg for mercy. Maybe even use one with thorns." She kissed him again.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," Bushroot quipped as their bills parted, and Rhoda traced her finger along the edge of his.

"Bad side? Are you kidding? Choking out those two would be doing the world a favor. I'd be your cheerleader for that." She nuzzled against him and rolled partway on top of him, and Bushroot grinned as one of his leaf hands got a nice feel of her breast.

"Are these your pompoms?"

At that, Rhoda let out a playful groan. "Keep making jokes like that and you _will_ be on my bad side," she said, before reaching for her clothes. "Unfortunately, I really do need to go back to the lab. I have some things to finish up that I started this morning that can't sit overnight." She gave Bushroot a sly look. "So just out of curiosity, when are you planning on paying those two back for what they did to you?"

Bushroot sat up and pressed his green hands together with a malicious look in his eyes. "The sooner the better. Are they both in today?"

As she slipped back into her dress, Rhoda nodded. "Oh, yes. And they were crowing about how great it was that you finally 'got what was coming to you' and that 'that back-stabbing slime sucker' was gone."

"They called me a slime-sucker?" Bushroot frowned; it was not that he was offended that they hated him that much, but rather that those fools had dared to call him such.

"And worse," Rhoda confirmed as she glanced into a compact mirror and smoothed down her hair.

The plant-duck's leafy hands balled into fists so tight that they looked like miniature cabbage heads, and his face took on a positively murderous look. "I'll make them sorry they ever crossed me."

The slightest hint of a sadistic and approving smile turned the edges of Rhoda's bill while she picked up her purse and turned toward the door. "I can't wait."

* * *

Not long after Rhoda left him at the greenhouse, Bushroot went back to the university with vicious thoughts of revenge on his mind. At first he did not consider what the average passerby's reaction to his new mutated form would be, and most of them were similar to Rhoda's initial impression. Those out and about on campus who saw him gawked and stared, and some even shrieked when they first saw him walking from where he had parked his car. Bushroot tried to convince himself that it did not matter, that they were just students and strangers whose opinions meant nothing. The Negaverse's Reginald Bushroot had never suffered the shyness and insecurity that his other-verse counterpart did. He was not the type to care much what the unimportant thought, but being pointed at and screamed at in disgust and revulsion was too much even for his arrogance. As a result he soon changed his approach to one that was stealthier, and he hid behind bushes and darted from shrub to tree to alley to get to the building he had worked in for so many years. He highly resented having to do so, and it made his hatred of Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson that much more passionate. First they had cost him his job, and now they had reduced him to _this_, to skulking in the shadows like some freakish outcast unfit for society.

_Outcast._ The word rang through his consciousness bitterly. _Is this how it's going to be for me from now on?_ Bushroot could not pretend that he was some martyr for science; while a breakthrough had been his goal, his real motivation for proving his theories the way he had had been for no other reason than to prove to those two, and the rest of the fools at the university, that they had made a mistake in firing him. He had also known going into it that side effects were a risk, but still, in his mind it was their fault that he now looked like something that belonged in a freak show, because they had forced him to play his hand the way he had. And if he had to live with the consequences, well, so did they. His blue eyes took on a cruel gleam as he crouched behind an evergreen shrub alongside the botanical and food sciences building. _I'll make sure they feel the consequences just as strongly as I do,_ he vowed viciously.

"_You should do them permanent damage."_

Rhoda's seductive voice echoed in his mind, bringing the hint of a dark smile to his bill. _Ah, Rhoda, you do have quite the killer instinct,_ he mused admiringly as he crept to the window belonging to Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's lab. Even if Bushroot had not already known which one it was, the obnoxious and loud music that they always played while working was cranked up high enough that he could hear it through the closed window as a dead giveaway to their location. Bushroot got himself into position and looked down at the ground by his feet and motioned to it with his leafy fingertips. Two strong green vines sprouted, and Bushroot guided them to the window without making a sound. They climbed along either side of it until they reached the center, and then they grew their way into the seam where the window opened. It took the vines only seconds to force it open, and once they did, Bushroot rose and motioned for them to enter the room, directing them to the scientists inside, who were unaware of the danger that they were in.

Bushroot peered through the glass as his vines slithered toward Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson. The scientists let out startled shouts, but they did not notice Bushroot himself because they were too busy jumping back in a panic from the animated vines that kept coming at them faster and faster. Bushroot could see them, however, and their terrified expressions. It gave him incredible satisfaction.

"What are those things?" Dr. Larson shouted, his voice cracking with fear, while Dr. Gary was no calmer.

"I don't know! Vines, or something!" He ran for the door, but Bushroot was a step ahead of him, and one of his vines had already wound across the only exit from the room, blocking their escape.

"Can't get to the door," gasped Dr. Larson.

"And they're coming in the window!" Dr. Gary gave Dr. Larson a frightened look that was mirrored on the other scientist's bespectacled face.

"What do you think they want?" Dr. Larson asked as he and Dr. Gary huddled together in the middle of the lab with nowhere else to go.

Their answer came in the form of a familiar—and ominous—chuckle. "They're my plants," Bushroot said to the two of them through the open window. "What do _you_ think they want?"

Dr. Gary was less affected by Bushroot's words than he was at the sight of Bushroot himself. "My god, what is that thing?"

Trembling now and clinging to Dr. Gary, Dr. Larson stared at the plant-duck's face in horror and disbelief. "It sounds like Reggie Bushroot—"

"That's because I _am_ Reginald Bushroot," Bushroot said, cutting off Dr. Larson with a hateful glower. "And you know how much I hate it when you call me 'Reggie', you cretin."

"Reginald Bushroot," Dr. Larson gasped before letting out a startled cry as one of the vines began to wind around his legs.

"But he's a… he's not a duck. He's a plant?" Dr. Gary gawked in disbelief at Bushroot, and then looked over at Dr. Larson just as the other vine coiled around him in the same way.

Even in that dire moment, Dr. Larson could not help but say, "Reggie's a veggie?" The humor fell flat, though, both to himself and Dr. Gary. Terror quickly overcame every other emotion they might have experienced as Bushroot's vines grew thicker, faster, and tighter around their bodies despite their struggles.

Bushroot, on the other hand, was far from amused by Dr. Larson's rhyme. "That'll be the last stupid pun I endure from your big mouth," he snapped furiously, and climbed in through the window to join them in the lab. Pointing to his vines, he ordered them venomously, "Squeeze them."

The plants did as their master bid them, and they coiled around the two trapped scientists with unbelievable strength and speed. Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson continued to struggle, but to no avail, and Bushroot watched with cruel satisfaction as the former co-workers he hated so much grew more and more fearful.

"What do you want?" the frightened Dr. Gary pleaded, while Dr. Larson also begged desperately.

"Dr. Bushroot, please!"

Bushroot glared at Dr. Gary while ignoring Dr. Larson's alarmed cry. "What do I want? I want to teach you what it means to screw with me." Unbridled loathing burned in his blue eyes as he continued. "I want you to experience firsthand just how very successful my research was, the research you cost me the funding for with your little game of trying to one-up me. Guess what?" Bushroot laughed darkly. "You lose. Because as you can see, my research_ is_ better, unless you think your burgers are going to come back to life and play herbivore with my plants."

"Dr. Bushroot…" Dr. Gary was now also begging, but Bushroot ignored it and continued to gloat. He had his vines coil tighter and thicker around the pair of scientists, who were now covered up to their necks in the deadly greenery.

"My research was intended to allow animal life to be able to take in nutrition like plants do, but as you can see, my formula does not only that, but so much more. But you… you took away my chance to prove it, to the dean, to the university, and to the world. Well, now it's payback time. Tell me, how does it feel to know that everything you've worked for, everything you've done, is being taken over, choked out, and destroyed?"

He paused to wait for an answer, but none came, because by then both Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's mouths were effectively gagged with vines and their throats being choked by them. "Oh, you can't? Catnip got your tongue?" he sneered. "Too bad. I'd always wondered what a wall choked out by kudzu, or a tree choked out by poison ivy felt like." Bushroot laughed and held out both of his hands, curling them into fists as the vines finished growing around the scientists' heads, covering their bodies nearly completely, with only their thick glasses visible through the greenery.

Bushroot savored their suffering for several long moments, enjoying the sight of two of the individuals he had loathed so much reduced to such pathetic fear and suffering at his hand. He imagined how terrified they must be, and grinned cruelly as he thought about what it must feel like to know that one's life was in the hands of someone who could so easily end it and even more easily want to. Smirking viciously at the two plant-mummies, Bushroot then uncurled his fists, indicating for the vines to stop squeezing. "All right," he said with heavy disgust toward his two bound enemies, "I think I've made my point. Don't ever, ever, make the mistake of crossing me again. Do you understand me? Never." He had the vines part from over their faces and loosen around their necks so that they could answer him, and he glared down at them expectantly, waiting for it.

When the vines moved aside, however, Bushroot's superior expression changed to one of shock as he saw the lifeless face of Dr. Gary staring back at him. The scientist's eyes were open behind his glasses, but they were glassy and unblinking. A quick and horrified glance over at Dr. Larson revealed a similar sight, and Bushroot began to feel a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—or whatever a plant-duck had as the equivalent of it. _I didn't squeeze them_ that_ hard, did I?_ He approached Dr. Gary and touched his leafy fingertip to the edge of his bill. He was not breathing, and in that close proximity, Bushroot could see that no amount of CPR would make him do so, since his throat and neck were crushed… crushed by _his_ vines.

"_You should do them permanent damage."_ That time Bushroot winced as he recalled Rhoda's words. They did not seem as sexy or enticing now that he had actually done said permanent damage, especially damage as permanent as death. As much as he had hated Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson, Bushroot had never intended to kill them. Frighten them, yes. Perhaps break a limb or a rib or two for causing him such inconvenience? Absolutely, that would have been quite satisfying. But kill them? He was not a killer, a thug, a criminal. He was a scientist. A greedy, ambitious, and ruthless scientist, one who would do almost anything to get ahead, yes. But murder? No, when faced with the harsh reality of it, he did not think he wanted to be_ that_ ruthless.

"_Choking out those two would be doing the world a favor. I'd be your cheerleader for that."_ Haunted by Rhoda's words, Bushroot lowered his head and turned away from Dr. Gary's lifeless face only to find himself looking at Dr. Larson again. He was every bit as dead as his partner, with no breath coming from his bill and ugly strangulation marks around the broken and bruised feathers on his neck. _Oh, would you really, Rhoda? Because I'm not so sure,_ Reginald Bushroot thought as a new and unfamiliar feeling came over him, one that he would feel more and more acutely over time.

With that ugly act of vengeance, the first seeds of Bushroot's conscience had been planted and were beginning to sprout.


	4. Part One, Chapter Three

**Origins of the Friendly Four  
By Cheezey**

**Part One: Bushroot  
Chapter Three**

Once he had his vines cover up the nightmarish expressions on Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's faces so that he did not have to look upon them any longer, Bushroot fled the scene of the murder just like any thug or criminal would have. He thought it was ironic that on his way there, he had resented feeling like such because he did not consider himself one, but now the plant-duck face that others seemed to think was monstrous_ did_ belong to a monster, or a murderer at any rate. The thought made him sick. Even though he had hated Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson and probably would have been glad if they had died in some accident or at someone else's hand, being responsible for it himself left him feeling more ill at ease with each passing moment.

Bushroot remembered the saying that revenge was a dish best served cold. The old cliché seemed to mock him, for he supposed that as a plant-duck and not a warm-blooded flesh and blood duck, he now truly fit the bill of a cold-blooded killer. _But all I really wanted to be was a successful scientist. To be the best, to be admired, feared, and respected for my brilliance and innovation, _Bushroot thought miserably. He supposed that it would not be hard to make others fear him now, although between his looks and his deeds, any sort of real admiration and respect would be out of his reach.

It was only when Bushroot returned to his greenhouse that he started to feel any better at all. His plants called out warm greetings to him as he came in, and he could not help but appreciate their kind whispers and murmurs of concern as they saw his agitated state. A fern patted Bushroot on the shoulder as he passed, and a potted Venus fly trap nuzzled against his leg much like a little dog might have when he paused next to it. He cast a sad smile down at the carnivorous flower. "I'm not surprised you of all plants would understand." Lost in thought, Bushroot then stared out through the transparent greenhouse panels where he could see the sun setting over the horizon.

Just like the vanishing daylight, Bushroot could feel his own energy fading. He was pretty sure that had more to do with the nightmarish events of the day than anything else, though. He wondered if sleep would give him some perspective, but the notion of going back to his apartment and to his bed made him feel even more uneasy. At least in the isolation of the greenhouse there was no chance of encountering anyone else. There would be no stares, no questions, and no screams. He would be alone with his plants, plants that were no longer just his hobby, but his friends. Bushroot walked over to the grassy patch that he had sprouted that afternoon for his tryst with Rhoda and sat down in it. The comfort of the lush blades and the earthen floor welcomed and warmed him, and before long they lulled him into a troubled sleep.

Bushroot did not awaken until well after dawn, and his greenhouse was quiet and peaceful. His plants called out to him cheerfully, and one of his hibiscuses even handed him his hose so that he could water himself—and it, of course—right away. He went ahead and did so, and then proceeded to water the rest of his leafy friends. Glancing outside he could see that it was promising to be another beautiful, warm, and sunny spring day. He knew that it was about the time when everyone would be getting to work, and he wondered what was happening there. Who would discover Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's bodies? Would it be Rhoda? Dean Tightbill? Someone else in the department, or a work-study student? As Bushroot finished his watering and put the hose away, his gaze fell upon on his old clothes where he had left them piled on a work bench after his transformation had rendered them superfluous. There was a blinking light in one of the pockets, and he realized that it was his cell phone. There was a message on it.

Wondering who had called, Bushroot felt his heart begin to pound. His heart… was that even possible? Biologically speaking, as a plant-duck did he still _have_ a heart? He supposed that he must, because something was certainly thumping in his chest. Perhaps now it just pumped sap rather than blood, but regardless, he still felt the adrenaline-like rush that came with his anxious emotional state.

Bushroot picked up his phone and saw that he had one voice mail, which turned out to be from Rhoda. She sounded agitated, but not angry, frightened, or disgusted with him, which came as much more of a relief than even he had realized that he had hoped for it to be. It was lonely feeling like he had the previous night, but at least he still had Rhoda. In her message she said that the police had blocked her and everyone else from entering the building that morning because someone—or some_thing_—terrible had murdered two of the scientists. Apparently the custodian working the overnight shift had spotted "strange bushes" in one of the labs and had called security. Upon investigation, they turned out to be the two bodies of Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson choked to death in vines. The police had then been called in to investigate, but no fingerprints had been found at the scene. Because of that the police then brought in their best detectives, who had in turn called in two colleagues from S.H.U.S.H. to help get to the root of the mystery.

The police interviewed everyone who worked there as they arrived, Rhoda said, and she also said that she had been questioned. She assured Bushroot that she had told them that she did not know how such a thing could have happened, and went on to say that they had also asked her about him. Apparently others had mentioned Reginald Bushroot as someone who might have hated Dr. Larson and Dr. Gary enough to see them dead, and they had told the police how the scientists had played a role in getting him fired the previous day. Their co-workers had also mentioned that Rhoda was in a relationship with Dr. Bushroot, who could not be found. Rhoda told Bushroot that she had only confirmed that they were involved, but she reassured him that she had not said anything incriminating. What she had said, she explained, was that as far as she knew, Reginald Bushroot did not have the size or strength to strangle two men of Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's stature with vines. She finished saying that she had feigned ignorance in regards to his mutation, but warned him not to call her at work in case they were tracing his calls. Lastly, she advised him to stay at the greenhouse and not answer the door in case anyone came looking for him or "the plant monster" that some students had reported seeing on campus around the time of the murders. It was said monster that was the prime suspect for the killings, but the police and their S.H.U.S.H. partners still wanted Reginald Bushroot for questioning.

Sure enough, Bushroot had just finished listening to the message when he saw the flashing lights of police cars coming up the driveway to his greenhouse. In a panic he wondered how the police knew he was there when the only one from work who even knew he owned the property was Rhoda, but then he supposed the police probably found that when they ran his name through the city tax records. Bushroot turned off his phone and clutched it tightly in his leafy hand. He knew that the police would draw their weapons as soon as they saw the "plant monster" and he was not sure he would have time to get a word out in his defense before they opened fire. Although he knew his plants could help him overcome them and escape if it came to that, he did not want to kill anyone else and make the situation even worse. He looked around in a panic. "Where can I hide?"

Almost immediately, and just in the nick of time, one of the larger trees in the greenhouse reached down and scooped him up into its branches. It lifted him high off of the floor and hid him in its canopy while the police began to bang on the door. "Reginald Bushroot, this is the police! Open up, or we're coming in. We have warrants to search and to bring you in for questioning."

Bushroot cringed in the branches and willed himself to remain absolutely still and not breathe. Plant-style respiration was a lifesaver for a situation like this, he realized, and he projected a hearty mental "thank you" to the tree that hid him. He was also glad that he still had his phone so they could not find it and hear the message that Rhoda had left him. He realized that he would have to get rid of the phone as soon as possible, lest they try and use it to trace his location if it was turned on.

He heard another loud knock and a shout of "We're coming in!" just before two armed police officers and two S.H.U.S.H. agents forced their way inside the greenhouse. They spread quickly around the main chamber, and Bushroot watched in silence as two of them went into the back. Luckily they did not see anything like Reginald Bushroot or a plant-monster, even though they gave the higher branches of his indoor trees a cursory look for any sign of movement or non-plant life. "Nobody's here," one of the police muttered. "Empty, just like the other team said his apartment was."

_Good thing I didn't go back there,_ Bushroot thought as he listened.

"He was here," one of the S.H.U.S.H. agents, a skinny weasel with beady eyes, remarked as he paused by the bench where Reginald's clothes were. "Clothes, and look… a wallet and keys in the pocket."

"That's odd," said the other S.H.U.S.H. agent, who was a female avian with dark hair. "Who runs off without his pants or his wallet or his keys?"

One of the policemen gave her a funny look. "A plant monster?"

The weasel S.H.U.S.H. agent frowned. "Or someone who's not coming back."

The other police officer scratched the underside of his bill. "You think that plant monster got Reginald Bushroot too?"

"If the plant monster isn't Reginald Bushroot himself," the female S.H.U.S.H. agent said to her partner, who nodded back in agreement.

The police were more skeptical, and glanced at one another. "Uh, that's a little crazy, don't you think?" said one of them.

"So is a homicide like the one that happened at the university," the weasel S.H.U.S.H. agent retorted. He gestured to Reginald's clothes and personal items. "We'll bag these and take them back to HQ. Keep the A.P.B. out on Bushroot and a plant-creature fitting the student descriptions. We'll cover the rest from here. This case qualifies for 'special' designation."

The female agent began collecting Reginald's things into evidence bags. "We'll need to discuss this with Grizzlikof, and I wouldn't be surprised if he takes it to Hooter."

"Me neither," said the weasel, while the two police officers exchanged looks once more and one let out a low whistle.

"That is high profile."

The weasel raised an eyebrow at the two policemen. "You have no idea. You know who sometimes even follows cases like this… for whatever reason."

"Not that we question that," the female S.H.U.S.H. officer remarked as she finished bagging the evidence.

"Who would?" quipped one of the police officers.

"Nobody that doesn't want to meet the unfriendly end of a chainsaw," said the other as the two officers left the greenhouse and returned to their car. It only took the two S.H.U.S.H. agents another couple of minutes to finish their work, and as they were leaving, Bushroot heard the weasel tell his partner to keep a trace on all calls to or from Reginald Bushroot's cell phone number and apartment line. Clenching his phone even tighter as they departed, Bushroot felt like what he was holding was not just a cell phone, but the very representation of what had once been his normal life—a life that he now had no choice but to leave behind.

He closed his eyes. First his job, now his apartment, his identity, and even his clothes… What would he lose next? His family? Yes, he supposed he might as well write them off, too. He was certain that they would be questioned soon if they had not been already, and even though they knew nothing about his mutation yet, he did not think they would be terribly sympathetic or accepting about it and his situation now that he was wanted by both the police and S.H.U.S.H. Ruefully Bushroot realized that he had not even given his parents and his sister a thought until now, but at this point it was too late to find them and explain. So what did he have left, then? His greenhouse and his plants… and Rhoda. Would he lose her too? Would he see her again?

Bushroot opened his eyes and stared off into the distance while his mind reeled with the consequences of his actions and his doubts took deeper root. _What have I done?_

_

* * *

  
_

Several hours later, Bushroot was still lost in his troubled thoughts. After the police and S.H.U.S.H. agents left, he stayed inside his greenhouse, and had even remained hidden in the tree for a good hour or so after their departure. The tree that had sheltered him had been sympathetic, as much as it could be for something that had only a vague idea of what laws or police were. Still, it was a voice that was willing to listen, and that was better than nothing. Bushroot then occupied himself by rearranging, watering, and fertilizing the rest of his plants to try and keep his anxious thoughts at bay. It was a novel experience to have his flowers tell him where the preferred spots for their pots were or what soil and fertilizer they enjoyed most, but it was not enough to get his mind off of everything altogether.

Reality came crashing back to him when he heard the greenhouse's metal door squeak open, and Bushroot whirled around, startled. To his relief his visitor was not a policeman or S.H.U.S.H. agent, but a much more welcome face. "Rhoda!" Bushroot rushed over to her with open arms. He saw that she looked distressed, as her bill wore a worried frown and her eyes were wide behind her glasses.

"Oh, Reginald!" She looked down at him with concern as he wrapped his vine arms around her. "I was going out of my mind wondering what was going on with you. I didn't want to try and call in case they were tracing my calls, and I wanted to wait until I was sure I wouldn't be followed here or that there were no cops around." Rhoda sighed and shifted her stance in her heels. "I should've changed out of these before walking all the way up here from where I parked, though. Vanity isn't always practical, I guess."

"I got your message, so I had the phone off anyway. Thanks for the warning, by the way. They would've caught me by surprise if I hadn't checked the voicemail," Bushroot said, and held her closer as he gave her a small smile. "And those shoes might not be practical, but they are sexy."

"That's a very male thing to say," Rhoda said, flashing him a practiced pouty and flirtatious expression. "They really are Hell to walk in, you know."

"Then take them off and have a seat." Bushroot gestured to a clear area on the greenhouse's dirt floor, where much to Rhoda's amazement a vine sprouted and grew in such a way that its stem and leaves formed a greenery bench.

After giving the makeshift loveseat an impressed look, Rhoda sat down on it and kicked her heels off. "Those new powers of yours really are convenient," she remarked as she motioned for him to join her.

His troubled look returned as he sat down. "They are, but as you can see, they're nothing to fool around with, either. Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson learned that the hard way."

Bushroot could feel Rhoda's gaze heavily upon him as she responded. "Well, it's not a mistake they'll make again… trifling with you, I mean." He met her eyes and she continued. "And neither will anyone else, knowing what you can do."

"Kill them?" Bushroot then sighed, while Rhoda frowned.

"Don't tell me you feel guilty about it… after what they did to you?" she said incredulously.

"I didn't set out to kill them, Rhoda," Bushroot said, taken aback by her tone. "I just wanted to teach them a lesson. Rough them up a little." He stared down at his hands. "I didn't realize I played so rough."

Rhoda put her arm around his slender green shoulders and held him close. "Maybe you just didn't realize how much you hated them." With her free hand she turned his face up toward hers. "I knew you did, and you had every reason to. I admit I was a little surprised that you outright killed them, but I'd figured you were at least going to put them in traction after our little chat yesterday." Her expression hardened as she gave what was for her, a sympathetic response. "But so what if they are dead? They had it coming. The prey should know better than to taunt the predator. They were losers, anyway. It's no big loss."

Bushroot looked into Rhoda's eyes while he enjoyed the comfort of her embrace. "You don't think I went too far?"

"You often go too far," Rhoda answered, and planted a light kiss on the tip of his bill. "In your research, in your work, in your thinking. You're a scientist. You test and push the limits of everything. You experiment, without holding back because others don't like it." Her fingertips stroked the back of his neck, brushing against the edge of his petal-hair. "It's one of the things I admire most about you… that I _love_ most about you."

Her sweetly spoken words were like salve to his shaken confidence, but they were not enough to erase all doubt. "The police and most everyone else would say you love a monster."

"But like you, Reginald, I don't really care what the ignorant masses think." She kissed him again, that time leaving the tip of her bill to linger against his afterward. "I know true genius, true greatness, true power when I see it," she whispered. "You have the world at your disposal. These powers of yours… they're an incredible achievement. The kind some of us would kill for."

Bushroot nuzzled against her. "Or in my case, kill with."

"I bet Dean Tightbill is triple-bolting his doors and windows tonight," she murmured with a conspiring gleam in her eyes. "I know I would be if I was him, knowing that I was next on your hit list."

"Yes. He has every reason to be afraid of me." Bushroot thought about his original intention to first go after Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson, and then the dean. Given what had happened with the first two and the fallout of that, though, Bushroot was not so sure about going after his former boss any longer. While he was still none too fond of Dean Tightbill, the burning need for revenge that he had initially felt had since died down.

Rhoda did not seem to realize that, however. "So what do you have planned for him? The same? Or something a little different?" She awaited his answer with a fascinated, almost predatory look.

"I—I hadn't really thought much about it since everything else happened," Bushroot admitted.

"All the police and investigations, you mean?" Rhoda guessed. "That does make it a little more difficult."

"S.H.U.S.H. along with the police poking around makes it a_ lot _more difficult. S.H.U.S.H. doesn't get involved in something like this unless government business or big political names are involved. And considering that the extent of my involvement in politics is voting for candidates that are least likely to screw the scientific industry, I doubt that's why they're interested." Bushroot frowned as he considered the implications. "My guess is that they don't so much care why I did it as they care how I did it, and they want to get their hands on me so they can keep me under control and possibly get those powers for themselves." He shuddered. "And when they see that I'm this plant-mutant that I am now, I'll be the lab rat instead of the scientist down in the bowels of _their_ research labs."

"They'd have to catch you first, though," Rhoda said with a knowing smile.

"Yes, and that'd be a feat, considering all the friends I have at my disposal," Bushroot said with a hint of his arrogance creeping back into his tone. "But it'd be foolish to get cocky and go asking for trouble by attacking Tightbill."

"Perhaps," Rhoda said, falling silent for a moment as new inspiration came to her. "Unless…"

"Unless what?" asked Bushroot.

"Unless you play the game and turn it around on them." A cunning smile crossed Rhoda's bill. "If you let them know they can't intimidate you, it'll make them wary of crossing you. If you go after Tightbill despite knowing that they're investigating, it'll prove to everyone that you're not running scared. Think about it. Lord Negaduck and S.H.U.S.H. are, as the old saying goes, thick as thieves. Like you said, they're not up in arms about Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's murders out of some moral concern. The police, yes, they're after you for that, for breaking the law, and thinking you're a danger to society. But S.H.U.S.H., they want to know about your powers." Rhoda rubbed the green ridges that formed Bushroot's shoulders with a sly look on her face. "Make it known that it's worth their while to court you rather than chase you, and you might well become one of the most powerful ducks in the world… perhaps running their laboratories, rather than trapped in them."

Bushroot thought about what Rhoda said, and while in some ways it seemed enticing, he also knew from experience that those who make deals with the devil eventually get burned. He had played the part of the devil often enough in his own little sphere of lab office politics to know how that worked. Bushroot was also smart enough to know when he was outclassed. While his plant powers might make it difficult for S.H.U.S.H. or Negaduck to catch or hold him, they could certainly make his life miserable while trying to do so. "I didn't go into science to work for an organization that'll take all the credit for my work," he said after a moment of consideration. "The university was far from perfect, but that was one thing it had going for it."

"Yes, and Tightbill ruined that for you when he fired you," Rhoda pointed out.

"I know." Bushroot's blue eyes darkened again. "If I hadn't lost my job thanks to him and those two..." He tried to ignore the unwanted mental images of Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's lifeless faces that came to him as he spoke. "…I wouldn't be in this position now," he finished sourly.

Rhoda pulled Bushroot closer and murmured to him in a seductive whisper, "Exactly."

"It _is_ because of him that I have these powers now," Bushroot murmured as Rhoda nuzzled pleasantly against him. The cruel sneer that had so often graced his features in the past returned once more as he was reminded of why he had gone to the university for revenge in the first place. "So maybe he does deserve a personal 'thank you' and a demonstration of what he did for me for that."

"I'm sure you'll make it very memorable." Rhoda eyed him with a flirtatious and admiring look.

Bushroot could not help but smile as Rhoda looked at him that way, and when she drew him into a sultry kiss a moment later, the flame of his vengeful desire was re-kindled along with his passion for the woman stoking it.

* * *

The next morning left Bushroot putting the grisly deaths of Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson out of his mind while he plotted his non-fatal but still painful payback for Dean Tightbill. Rhoda, meanwhile, went to work like normal to maintain her "business as usual" appearance. As far as her co-workers knew, she had no idea where the missing Reginald Bushroot had gone and was distraught by his disappearance. No one questioned that, mostly because Rhoda had no close friends in the workplace because of how competitive she was. That suited her just fine, though, since her career was important to her and she intended to keep it in the best standing possible until Bushroot was well enough established on his own for her to publicly jump ship and join him.

Therefore, it came as a total surprise to Rhoda to find a masked duck in a red fedora and black and red cape waiting for her in her lab with his arms folded across his chest. "Good morning, Dr. Dendron," Negaduck greeted her in a smooth, yet intimidating tone as an equally dangerous smile crossed his beak. She heard the lab door click shut behind her, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw a big duck with ratty orange hair and combat boots standing in front of it, barring any chance of escape.

"Lord Negaduck," she said with a gasp. It was one of the few times the confident Rhoda ever appeared visibly shaken.

Her reaction broadened Negaduck's smile to a wicked grin. "My reputation precedes me."

Rhoda regained her composure and assumed her best professional air, which was surprisingly unapproachable for someone wearing as short and tight a dress as she had on beneath her lab coat. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, just answer a few questions, that's all." Negaduck's approach was calm and almost charming, or at least it would have been had his reputation and sidekick not been there to highlight the inequality in their balance of power. "As you know, S.H.U.S.H. was called in to investigate the murder of your colleagues, and when I heard about it, I couldn't help but be a little curious about something as unusual as a plant-monster running around my city vining scientists to an untimely end."

Rhoda blinked with practiced innocence. "You can't possibly think that I have anything to do with—"

"A pretty girl like you getting her hands dirty gardening? Oh no," Negaduck sneered back at her, making it clear that he knew full well that she was hardly as innocent as she pretended to be. "But I do think your boyfriend might." He eyed her more intently through his black mask. "You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?"

Doing her best not to show her unease, Rhoda straightened staunchly. "If you mean Dr. Bushroot, I haven't the faintest idea where he is right now." That was not an outright lie; Rhoda did not know whether he was still at the greenhouse or if he was already on his way to the university to go after Dean Tightbill.

"But you have seen him." Negaduck stared at her in a way that dared her to challenge the assertion. "I know, because S.H.U.S.H. ran your cell phone records, and you called him the morning after the murders. Your car was also seen parked in his neighborhood last night." He gave her a pointed look. "Unless you have other friends in that area that'll vouch for you being with them?"

Rhoda found it increasingly difficult to maintain her cool air in front of St. Canard's notorious crime lord. "I called Reginald because I was worried about him, but I didn't get him. I left him a message," she said, again technically not lying.

Negaduck, meanwhile, was growing more impatient with her stonewalling. "Look, I don't care what you two eggheads have going on with one another on personal terms. That's not why I'm here. I'm here for one thing: answers. I want to know if Reginald Bushroot did that to the scientists, and if not, who did and more importantly, _how_."

"The students said that a plant monster—"

"I know what the students said," Negaduck said, cutting her off. "I want to hear a straight answer from you. Did he do it?" He glared at Rhoda in cold warning. "And before you answer, let me make this clear… if I find out you're lying to me, I'll hold you _personally_ accountable for it." Launchpad let out a dark chuckle at Negaduck's threat, while Rhoda gave the masked duck a meek nod of understanding.

"Yes."

The smile that crept across Negaduck's bill upon hearing her answer was one of fiendish pleasure. "I thought as much. So, how did he do it? Is he the so-called 'plant monster', or is it something he's got working for him?"

Rhoda frowned, choosing her words carefully as she walked the tight line of both appeasing Negaduck and promoting her lover's interests. "Reginald's experiments have given him some new abilities," she admitted, and then quickly added, "but he's not a threat to you or anyone in S.H.U.S.H., I promise."

"Really?" Negaduck eyed her in a way that made even her blood run cold. "Do tell. Why not?"

"What happened here was personal. Revenge. That's all." Rhoda's expression changed from compliant to somewhat coy. "In fact, I'd bet that once he takes care of those that wronged him, he'll go back to doing what he always did… his research."

Negaduck tapped his finger against the bench top. "Research, of course. So enlighten me, just what did our veggie Reggie research? And don't insult my intelligence by telling me 'botany'. I already read his personnel file."

"He was investigating a method of inducing photosynthetic metabolism in animals."

"Huh?" Launchpad spoke up from the door.

"Making animals use sunlight as food like plants do," Negaduck snapped at his sidekick before turning back to Rhoda. "Don't mind him; words with more than two syllables stump him," he said before continuing on a more serious note. "So I take it that his research was a success, and it gave him the ability to do this? How? Did he make those plants grow that way?"

Rhoda knew that withholding the information from Negaduck would not only be dangerous, but also pointless, as he would discover it soon enough anyhow. "In essence, yes. He can control plants now," she explained, giving him her most enticing look. It was not so much to hit on him as it was out of her habit of using her looks to disarm and win men over in general. "I'm sure if you talked to him, you could convince him to put those powers to work for you. They'd be a great asset to someone of your prominence, Lord Negaduck. Like I said, he has no agenda other than personal."

Negaduck smiled back at Rhoda as though he was impressed. "Heh… I didn't expect one of you science nerds to think of my kind of big picture." He eyed her up and down. "Then again, you look better than most of these geeks, too. Frankly, I'm surprised someone like Reginald Bushroot managed to hit that." He held up the picture of Reginald Bushroot from his personnel file, which was not terribly flattering. "What did_ you_ get out of it?"

"He's a brilliant scientist," Rhoda snapped on a defensive note.

"And the fact that he, much like you, ran over everyone in his path to get where he was and what he wanted I'm guessing is what made him your kind of guy," Negaduck sneered as he stuffed the photo back into his pocket. "But you are right about one thing, I could use someone like that in my organization. Even someone like me needs reliable help." He glanced over at Launchpad, who was contemplating the brightly colored number-coded hazard sign on the wall. "And some _smart_ help might be a nice change."

While Launchpad snapped back to attention, Rhoda gave Negaduck an agreeable nod, both relieved and pleased that he was open to her line of thinking. _Reginald will thank me for getting Lord Negaduck in our camp,_ she thought smugly as she anticipated his gratitude and enthusiasm. With that kind of backing, no one would ever dare cross either of them again. Bushroot would have free license to do whatever he pleased, and as his lover, she would reap all of the benefits being at his side. "I'm sure he'd be quite grateful for a chance to work for you," Rhoda said sweetly.

Negaduck straightened his hat with an arrogant look. "Of course he would. But without being able to find him, it's a little difficult to make that kind of offer. So, do you have any more information?"

A coy smile curled the edges of Rhoda's bill. "As a matter of fact, I do." She took a few steps closer to Negaduck, walking in her most provocative stride. "It just so happens that Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson aren't the only ones Dr. Bushroot considers a thorn in his side. Given what he thinks of Dean Tightbill after everything that happened, it wouldn't surprise me _at all_ if he went after him next. If you keep an eye on him," she allowed her voice to trail off dramatically for a moment, "you just might catch Reginald in action and see for yourself everything that he can do, and make him an offer."

"Is that so?" Negaduck grinned back at Rhoda. "Well thank you, Dr. Dendron. You've been _very_ helpful."

"It was my pleasure, Lord Negaduck," Rhoda replied with a satisfied gleam in her eyes.


	5. Part One, Chapter Four

**Origins of the Friendly Four  
By Cheezey**

**Part One: Bushroot  
Chapter Four**

Unaware that his trip to the university was being anticipated by anyone but Rhoda, Bushroot crept among the trees and shrubs on the campus to get to the botanical and food sciences building without being noticed. Although skulking around in the bushes had bothered him at first, it was easier for him now. Even though he had only been a plant-duck for a short while, he was a fast learner and the cooperation of the plants was a big help. He stared up at Dean Tightbill's office window when he arrived. This time he was not going to take a subtle approach. If he was going to be branded with the reputation of "plant-monster" for the rest of his life, he was going to earn it in style. He had already decided that he would not kill Tightbill, but the dean did not need to know that. In fact, Bushroot hoped that he would think it, because he wanted to give his former boss the scare of his life.

Bushroot placed his green hand on the trunk of a large oak and looked up into its canopy. "That's the window over there," he said, pointing with his other hand. "There'll be a short little duck in cheap clothes at the desk. Grab him and bring him to me here."

The tree whispered an acknowledgment to him, and Bushroot watched as it then uprooted itself and rumbled toward the building. The sight was impressive. Even with everything he had already seen and done, it still amazed Bushroot to watch his tree friends in action. He could just imagine how the Dean would soil himself when he saw an oak that size coming after him, and it brought a mean smirk to his bill. _Rhoda should enjoy this show. _ He hoped that she was around to witness it, although he was prepared to intervene in a flash if it at any point it looked like she might get too close to the action.

The oak smashed through the building's brick wall with barely a scuff to its bark, and Bushroot let out an approving whistle. "You guys definitely aren't trees I'd mess with," Bushroot said to the other oaks nearby. He could hear screams coming from inside the building as the tree smashed its way in.

"Look at how afraid they are," Bushroot said, although for some reason the words felt empty as he spoke them. Hearing the terrified cries of his co-workers was not quite as satisfying as he had thought it would be. He pushed that unwelcome thought aside, though, and peered through the rubble that was once the wall of Dean Tightbill's office. He could just imagine how Tightbill would fret over the cost of the repairs and worry about them coming out of his salary once it was all over. That mean thought inspired a cruel grin, and Bushroot mused that the best justice for Tightbill would be for him to get canned. One good turn deserved another.

"Help! Help me!" Bushroot recognized the frantic voice pleading with the tree that was holding him as the dean's. He watched as the oak pulled him out of the building, holding him up high off the ground by the back of his jacket. The old garment was already starting to rip, not being up to the task of supporting an adult duck's weight in such a way. "Please don't hurt me!" Tightbill begged as Bushroot approached, ready to gloat. "I never even liked to eat my vegetables. My mother always had to force me. In fact, I ate a big steak last night and even skipped the potatoes!"

Amused by Tightbill's desperation, Bushroot opened his bill to taunt him, but before he got the chance two more figures appeared in the opening of the broken wall—Negaduck and his sidekick Launchpad. "Lord Negaduck?" Bushroot gasped in shock. What was _he _doing there? An ominous feeling came over him as he eyed the notorious caped crime lord, and he knew that whatever Negaduck's reason was for being there, nothing good was going to come of it.

Negaduck, meanwhile, leaned casually against the part of the wall still standing. "Well, well, well… it looks like you've got your old boss way out on a limb there, don't you, Dr. Bushroot?"

_He knows I'm the 'plant-monster',_ Bushroot realized with a sense of alarm. "It's not what you think." He cast a fleeting glance at the struggling Tightbill while Negaduck's brow rose incredulously.

"Oh? So you're _not_ about to use your arboreal army to pound the tar out of guy that fired you?"

Launchpad was not convinced either. "I think he wants to turn him into salad fixings."

"What have I told you about shutting up and leaving the jokes to me?" Negaduck gave Launchpad an irritable glare and slugged him in the gut before jumping down to meet Bushroot.

Still squirming helplessly in the tree branches, Dean Tightbill continued to beg. "Lord Negaduck, help me! Please!"

Negaduck's response was to laugh. "Do you think that's actually why I'm here? That I came out of the goodness of my heart to protect you from the 'scary plant-monster' at large?" He sneered. "I'm surprised someone as smart as I'd expect a university dean to be would bite on that line."

Tightbill gaped back at Negaduck in horror, dumbfounded by the betrayal. It caught Bushroot off guard as well, and he gave Negaduck a wary look as his own unease intensified. "Why are you here, then?"

Negaduck placed his hands together while a fiendish smile spread across his bill. "For one, to see if the rumors I'd been hearing were true. It seems they are. You _can_ control plant life and make it do your bidding."

The look on Negaduck's masked face only made Bushroot feel worse. "Why else?"

"To make you an offer."

Dean Tightbill continued to cry for help while Negaduck approached Bushroot. "Dr. Bushroot, please!" The dean gave the plant-duck a desperate look; he knew that however slim the chance was that his angry ex-employee would show him mercy, it was still more likely than receiving any from Lord Negaduck, who had already made it clear that he was nothing but cannon fodder to him. Bushroot knew that too, and it made him feel even more uncomfortable. Unbidden memories of times past, happier ones when Tightbill had complemented his ingenuity and defended his research projects to doubters, flashed through his mind. It overrode his anger, just for a moment, perhaps because the dean's fear and desperation were so raw and genuine.

Bushroot forced himself to look away from Tightbill and reminded himself that it was the dean's own fault that he was in that situation to begin with. _He fired me. Let him squirm. He deserves it, right?_ Bushroot thought as he answered Negaduck. "What kind of offer?"

"The best kind of offer you can get from me: to work for me." Negaduck grinned at him. "I was impressed with how you handled the two geeks that got you fired. That kind of ruthlessness, that kind of style… I like it," he said, giving what was for him, a rare complement. "Your girlfriend told me that you were the kind of duck that I'd like to work with, so show me what else you can do by making an example of this pathetic desk jockey here, and we can talk _serious_ green."

Eyes wide with terror, Dean Tightbill pleaded to Bushroot once more. "Dr. Bushroot..."

The realization that Negaduck wanted him to be a hit-man hit Bushroot like a ton of fertilizer. _Lord Negaduck respects me for the thing I never intended to do,_ he realized grimly, along with the fact that Rhoda apparently did as well. While he was glad that she had not condemned him for what he had done, he had also thought that she was just being supportive and that she had hated Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson as much as he did. _Is Rhoda really that vicious,_ he wondered, _more vicious than I am?_

"Well? I'm waiting." Negaduck tapped his foot and gave Bushroot an impatient look.

"I… I don't know about that." Bushroot's uncertainty grew exponentially with each passing moment. "You don't know what I have planned."

"So impress me."

Whimpering, Dean Tightbill gave Bushroot a pathetic look, stirring even more unwanted sympathy in him. He looked from Tightbill to the oak tree, which was impassive and waiting for his command. Bushroot then looked over at Negaduck, who was watching him with a cold and ruthless expression that challenged him to demonstrate that he was of a like mind. _You didn't plan to kill him,_ said the small voice of Bushroot's ever-growing conscience. _Do you really want to be Negaduck's hired hit-plant?_

"Did Dean Tightbill do anything to you?" Bushroot asked.

"No, he did something to _you_, I thought," Negaduck replied, his fuse nearly as short as his patience. "I don't care one way or another."

Launchpad felt the same as his boss. "Just plant him already, will you? I want to get lunch."

Being ordered around by Negaduck's thug was the final straw, and something stubborn and rebellious in Bushroot snapped. This was _not _what he wanted. "No," he said defiantly, and waved off his oak. Obediently the tree dropped Tightbill to the ground, shaken but otherwise unhurt. Bushroot stared back at Negaduck, who gawked at him in angry disbelief. "I did what I came to do," Bushroot said, and then turned to leave.

Scowling and furious, Negaduck charged forward. "Maybe you don't understand something, Bush-brain, but when I make an offer, I don't expect to be refused."

"There's a first time for everything." A hard look of disdain, much like the one the un-mutated Dr. Reginald Bushroot often gave those he considered beneath him, crossed Bushroot's plant-duck features as he looked over his shoulder at Negaduck. "I'm a scientist, not a murderer for hire."

"You're whatever I order you to be, or you're tossed salad!" The enraged Negaduck pulled out his chainsaw and revved it menacingly. "Your brainy bimbo didn't tell me that you had some kind of pathetic conscience when she told me where to find you."

Bushroot felt a miserable stab in his gut upon hearing that Rhoda had pointed Negaduck in his direction, and his voice took on a bitter note. "Maybe you both ought to do your research on me a little better then." Then, before things could escalate further, Bushroot had his oak hold off Negaduck and Launchpad while he sprouted a thick patch of shrubs around his body. It did not take Negaduck long to get the better of the tree with the help of his chainsaw, but by the time he and Launchpad got away from it and reached the spot where Bushroot had grown his bushes to hide, all they found was an empty hole in the ground that he had used as his escape route.

* * *

Bushroot was a conflicted bundle of nerves by the time he made it home to his greenhouse. Instead of making him feel better, going after Dean Tightbill at the university had gone so badly that he felt more uncertain about everything than ever. He had gone there for revenge, but had come away sparing the duck he had gone after just to prove a point to Negaduck. Negaduck! He had actually snubbed Lord Negaduck! The plant-duck rubbed his temples anxiously. What was he thinking? Anyone with any common sense in the Negaverse's St. Canard knew that Negaduck was not someone to be crossed lightly. And yet… despite that, Bushroot could not say that he regretted what he had done. He certainly did not want to be a hit-plant or one of Negaduck's thugs. All he really wanted was to be a world-renowned researcher and have the prestige, fame, and glory that came with it. But now he was a mutant, a murderer, and an outcast. How had things spiraled so far out of control?

And then there was Rhoda. Knowing that she had actually sent Negaduck to him made Bushroot feel both hurt and angry at once. What had she been thinking, telling Negaduck that he would work for him weeding out undesirables? When they had last been together, he had specifically told her that he did not want to get involved with S.H.U.S.H. or Negaduck. What kind of duck did she think he was, anyway? He had never pretended to be a nice guy, but for her to think that he would have no qualms taking on a career of killing in cold blood…

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his leafy hands. _And what kind of duck is she that she'd not only condone, but approve of and encourage me to do that?_ Bushroot wondered how well he really knew Rhoda at all. _Even less than I know myself, apparently, and I'm not even very sure about that anymore._

His plants could sense his distress and they whispered telepathic comfort to Bushroot, but even though they were well-intentioned, it was like trying to use a band-aid to cover a gaping wound. There was nothing that they could say that could make him feel better, and nothing they could do that would not just make the situation worse. Using plants to pummel anyone that gave him trouble appealed less each time Bushroot thought about doing it. He did not like being a murderer, and he did not want to kill anyone else. Not even Negaduck's flunkies, who he imagined would be coming after him before long for his refusal to work for the crime lord. "I'd better take some precautions for that at least," Bushroot said, and looked around his greenhouse for ideas. After what he had done to Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson, he did not want to grow vines like that again, and oak trees like the one he had used back at the university did not grow close enough to his greenhouse to be of any help.

Then Bushroot heard a small snap behind him, and when he turned around to see what had made the noise, he noticed the little potted fly trap with its jaw clamped shut after having gotten its latest meal. "You know, I bet you'd make a good watch-plant for this place," he mused aloud as an idea came to him.

He knelt beside the fly trap and studied it for a moment, smiling a little as it opened its jaws again after digesting its tasty insect treat. "Would you like to grow big for me?" Bushroot asked, making a little gesture with his fingertips. Immediately the fly trap began to grow taller and thicker in the stem. Pleased with that, Bushroot then retrieved a flask of experimental fertilizer that he had been tinkering with and poured a small amount of it into its pot. The fly trap grew even larger, its stem lengthening to incredible proportions and its head expanding from small to large to immense. Red-orange foliage sprouted at the back of its head and light green leaves formed what looked like a collar around its neck while two long darker leaves grew from its stem into arm-like appendages. _It's trying to make itself more like me,_ Bushroot realized as the plant then uprooted itself from the pot and stood before him as if to show off how well it had grown.

"My, those teeth of yours are pretty sharp up close, aren't they?" he remarked as he traced a leafy fingertip over the fly trap's nose, peering more closely at its vicious-looking mouth. "Sharp and spiky," he added, gingerly touching the tip of one. The plant gave a little nod, and then panted at him in a way that reminded Bushroot of a loyal dog. "I think that's what I'll call you," he decided. "Spike." He patted Spike's muzzle, and the plant rubbed against him, enjoying the attention.

Spike served as a pleasant distraction for Bushroot for a little while after that, and once he satisfied his curiosity about his newest creation, he went on to tend to other plants in the greenhouse that needed him. Spike followed Bushroot around, watching him with childlike curiosity. Bushroot found it mildly annoying at first, but he held back his complaints as he realized that that even if the fly trap was underfoot, it was still nice to have the company of something that did not think of him as a murdering monster or a willing thug for hire. That brief break from his troubled thoughts soon came to an end, however. Bushroot heard his greenhouse door open and then slam shut behind the visitor that stormed in toward him, angrily calling his name.

"Reginald!"

Bushroot winced at the screeching note in Rhoda's voice, and he greeted her with a weary look. "Hello, Rhoda."

Her eyes were ablaze with anger that seemed to be magnified in her glasses as she approached. "What's the matter with you? How could you _do_ this to me, after all I've done for you?"

A mixture of aggravation, guilt, and betrayal all welled up in one gut-churning whirl inside him as he stared back at her. "What have I done to _you_? What did _you_ do to _me_?" he countered. "What the Hell did you tell Lord Negaduck about me?"

The force in Bushroot's tone cowed Rhoda a little, but only a little, and she continued to glare at him. "I told him that you and I were the kind of ducks he'd be well-allied with," she retorted angrily. "What did you tell him that had him coming back to me hollering and calling for your blood… or sap, whatever? I was lucky he didn't want my tail-feathers on a platter after what you did. What got into you, Reginald? Why did you insult him?"

"Insult _him_? Nothing I said or did was any more insulting than being expected to be his next mindless thug." Bushroot narrowed his eyes. "What made you think I'd want to be that?"

"I thought you'd like to have the backing of the most powerful duck in St. Canard," snapped Rhoda. "I thought maybe you'd want Lord Negaduck and S.H.U.S.H. as your allies rather than your enemies."

Bushroot took a step closer to Rhoda, meeting her glare with an equally irate one of his own. "I told you yesterday that I didn't want to get involved with them." He frowned. "Do you really think I want to spend the rest of my life at their beck and call, weeding out whoever they tell me to whether I like it or not?"

Rhoda folded her arms. "What I thought was that you wanted someone powerful in your camp, someone who'd give you access to the best of the best, someone at the top of the heap. Someone who could allow you to be recognized and respected the way you always wanted."

"For my scientific contributions?" he repeated incredulously. "Do you honestly think that's why he wants to hire me?"

"That could've been arranged once we were in."

"When I got my body count high enough to please him, maybe?" Bushroot's tone was cynical and sarcastic, and Rhoda frowned more deeply at it.

"So? What's a few more? It's not like your hands aren't already soiled, and it's not like you'd have to get rid of anyone that mattered to you."

Hearing Rhoda speak of taking lives in such rationalized terms made Bushroot's sap run cold, and for the first time as he looked at her, she seemed not to be the beautiful and brilliant scientist he admired and loved, but a vicious snake of a woman with all the appeal of a reptile. "Rhoda," he said in disbelief, "do you even hear yourself? You're talking about murder. Not some workplace power play or professional competition."

Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "You're bringing morality into this now? Really? After you're the one who _did_ commit murder?"

"I set out to beat them up, not kill them! I thought you understood that." Bushroot looked away as he realized that her support and admiration of him were rooted in what seemed to be all the wrong reasons. "Is that why you didn't take me to task for what I did? Because you thought it was no big deal? Not because," he paused, "not because you love me?" He looked at her with mournful blue eyes that had already discerned the real answer before she even had a chance to speak.

Rhoda mistook his sad expression for one of reconciliation, and lowered her voice as well, facing him with a distraught look of her own. "I made that offer to Negaduck _because_ I love you, because I want us to rise to the top together," she told him on a note of raw honesty. "Why would I judge you for killing those two idiots when I'd have done the same thing? I told you then and I still mean it now, it's no great loss anyway." She reached out and caressed the side of Bushroot's green face. "What's come over you, Reginald? Where did this self-doubting conscience of yours come from? Where's the duck with the killer instinct that'll push the very laws of science to get what he wants?"

"I think he was changed into something else," Bushroot answered, staring down at his leaf-like hands for a moment before meeting Rhoda's eyes once more. Where he had once found delight, excitement, and familiarity, he now saw only pain, chaos, and a stranger.

"You've been through a lot," Rhoda said, searching his face for that same connection and spark that Bushroot knew was already extinguished. "Maybe you just need to take some time to think about things, and maybe I can still smooth things over with Lord Negaduck and explain to him that he just caught you on an off day. Maybe I can do what you're too frazzled for right now."

Frowning uneasily, Bushroot asked, "What do you mean by that?"

A fond and rather conniving smile crossed Rhoda's bill. "We know your research was a success, and we know what it does. I've seen what you are and what you can do." She leaned a little closer to him with a provocative look in her eyes that any other time Bushroot would have found himself hopelessly and contentedly drawn into with the delights it promised. "Change me," she urged in a seductive whisper, her bill brushing against his as she spoke. "Make me into what you are, and I'll do what you're too keyed up to do right now. I'll make it work for us." She kissed him.

Bushroot was too shocked to respond, and pulled back as their beaks parted. "What?"

"It's all right," Rhoda assured him. "I can handle being green… even the leaves and twigs and bark. It'll be an adjustment, but I know it'll grow on me." She drew her hand through his purple petal-like hair. "I'll be just like you. We can grow old and put roots down together. You and me, one unstoppable force that no one, not even Negaduck, will be able to stop."

The answer was out of Bushroot's bill almost before he could consciously ponder it. "No." His mind reeled with the implications of what Rhoda wanted him to do, and what he knew would happen if he did. "I can't… I can't make you into a monster."

"I don't think you're a monster, Reginald." She looked at him with such conviction that it only cemented his own certainty that transforming her and giving her plant powers like his would be a very big mistake.

He closed his eyes and touched his bill to hers in what he imagined would be his last kiss with her, with the woman he had loved so strongly, for so long, and for all the wrong reasons. "No, Rhoda. I'm sorry, but I can't."

Rhoda stared back at Bushroot, hurt and incredulous. "What do you mean 'you can't'? Yes you can." She frowned. "Is it the chloroplast infusion formula? Do you need something you don't have for it, or is there something missing?"

"It's not technical," he said, his voice growing shaky. "I'm sorry." He saw her eyes cloud and her beak twitch with unwanted emotion as he continued. "But I can't, I won't, change you into what I am."

"Why not?" Rhoda's tone grew cold and angry.

"Because it would be wrong," Bushroot said, feeling a strange sense of conviction as he spoke the words. Rhoda was not convinced, however, and she glared down at Bushroot with a sour look.

"You think it's wrong to give the woman you love something she wants?"

"It's not about denying you, Rhoda. It's…" Bushroot found himself unable to finish the sentence and voice the ugly truth that rang clearly in his mind: that he could not give it to her because he knew she would abuse it and make the world that much worse a place.

"What's it about, then? Is it about keeping all the power for yourself? About keeping me in your shadow?"

Bushroot frowned, offended and hurt. "Of course not."

"Then why won't you share it with me?" she challenged. "Do you think I'd show you up? Do it better than you?"

_That's exactly what I'm afraid of, but not in the way you think, _Bushroot thought before he answered her_. _"I don't want to see you turn into something we'll both regret."

Her gaze hardened as she stared back him. "We'll both regret it if you don't."

As he shook his head, Bushroot felt drained but surer of himself than ever. "No, Rhoda. I don't think so."

Angry tears welled up in Rhoda's eyes and her bill began to quiver. "After everything I've done for you and us… how can you_ do _this to me?"

"What you've done?" Bushroot repeated, his patience worn thin. "You mean offer me up to Negaduck like a prize to the highest bidder?"

"I was getting us the chance of a lifetime!"

"You were getting _you_ the chance of a lifetime," Bushroot corrected her in a thorny tone. "If you were considering my feelings at all, you'd have at least discussed it with me first."

"Oh, please," Rhoda said sarcastically. "Isn't it rather hypocritical of _you_ to lecture anyone about considering the feelings of others?"

"I'd have considered yours," he said as another part of him withered inside at her cheap shot.

"Well that's funny, because you don't seem to be too concerned with that now." Rhoda glared back at Bushroot pursing her bill in a way that let her hold back her unwanted tears. "I thought you loved me. That you'd do anything for me… or was that just something you said because I was putting out for you?"

Her words cut him as deeply as he imagined it would feel like to be pruned. After years of being careless and cold about the feelings of others, Bushroot finally discovered how it felt to be on the receiving end of such barbs. "If sex was all I cared about, I'd have spent my money on a hooker rather than our nice dinners out and all the flowers and gifts I gave you," he informed her curtly. He swallowed back his own unwanted emotion and then said, "I did love you." _More than either of us ever realized until now, _his thoughts continued unspoken.

"You 'did' love me?" Rhoda repeated on an equally charged note. "Are you saying that you don't anymore?"

The question hung in the air like a black cloud for a long and painful moment. While Bushroot could not say that he did not love her—if he didn't, oh, it couldn't possibly hurt so much!—he did know that it could never bring either of them anything but more pain and disappointment. "I think," Bushroot said, feeling wearier than ever, "I think that you should go before either of us says anything else that makes this even worse."

Rhoda glared back at him, both hurt and furious. "No. I'm not going anywhere. Not until you start listening to reason."

"One of us here isn't listening to reason, and it isn't me." Bushroot turned away and headed for the door. "So I'll save you the trouble and go elsewhere myself."

"Don't you dare!" Rhoda reached for Bushroot and grabbed his vine-like arm, tugging it hard and forcibly yanking him back toward her. "You can't walk out on me after everything I've done for you, Reginald Bushroot! You can't!"

Looking back at her with a miserable and heartbroken expression, Bushroot wrenched his arm free of Rhoda's grip with contortions made possible only by his plant-mutant powers. "If there's one thing I've learned since this madness started, it's that there's nothing I _can't _do. Goodbye, Rhoda." His tone was sad and gentle as he spoke those parting words, and when he was finished he turned and walked out of the greenhouse while his ferns, palms, hibiscuses, and every other potted tree and plant with any size to it moved to fill the space between her and him while he made his departure.

Rhoda was not willing to let that stop her, and she lunged after him determinedly. "Reginald!" She swatted angrily at every leaf and limb that got in her way. "Come back! Reginald!" A huge palm leaf drooped in front of Rhoda's face, effectively blocking her sight, and she felt a sudden sting in her side courtesy of a red rose that had grown out and across her path. Furiously she ripped it aside, for once not caring about the run it left in her dress or the cut it left in her feathered skin beneath, and she shoved her way past even more plants to try to catch up to him. There was a grunting and growling noise at her side, but Rhoda barely noticed that it was Spike or even what Spike was, and she just smacked him hard on the nose and ran past him to the now wide open door, where there was no sign of Bushroot in the field beyond it.

"You'll be sorry!" Rhoda hollered out into the darkness. "Do you hear me? I swear I'll make you regret this!"

In the cold darkness of that spring night, Bushroot knelt in the grass on the hillside, taking the comfort offered by the plant life that now amounted to his only friends left in the world. He closed his eyes and willed back the tide of emotion that threatened to spill out if he let it as he heard her enraged shouts in the distance. _Oh, I do, Rhoda. I regret more than you could ever imagine._

_

* * *

_

The dawn of the morning sun and Spike nuzzling against the side of his face roused Bushroot from his uneasy sleep in the field. He gave a sad smile to his fly trap pet as he remembered where he was, and why. "Hello, Spike," he said, feeling a small bit of comfort in the fact that at least creating him, unlike almost everything else he had done since he had been fired, had gone according to plan.

Rhoda was long gone by the time Bushroot returned to the greenhouse, but the evidence of her rage was left behind. Smashed flower pots, dumped out bags of peat moss and fertilizer, and a running hose in the middle of it all left an ugly mess reminiscent of the shattered state of their relationship. Although Bushroot had always known that Rhoda was ambitious and admired her for it, discovering that it outranked her feelings for him made him feel even more hollow inside, rather like the physical state of an old tree. The fact that she had tried to stop him from leaving despite it all was even worse, for now he could never know how much of it had been real and how much had just been her seeking to advance herself through him. Bushroot remembered the all the sweet words Rhoda had spoken to him, her gentle touches, and the delightful kisses they had shared, and found himself wondering which of those, if any, were born of love and not just a means to an end for her.

Not too long ago, Bushroot supposed that would not have bothered him much. He remembered thinking back when they first started seeing one another how his main goal had been to get her in bed and anything beyond that was a bonus. Over time, though, that had changed. The lust that had initially drawn him to her grew into love, and as good a time as they had always had together, Bushroot had never questioned that it was not the same for Rhoda. Now, hindsight was crystal clear and it left him wishing that he had seen fit to apply the same analytical thinking to his love life that he did to his experiments.

With a sigh he turned on the radio for some music to distract him from his thoughts while he cleaned up the mess Rhoda left behind. When the song that was playing ended it was followed by a news bulletin. "The police and S.H.U.S.H. have released more information regarding the mysterious murders of two scientists at St. Canard University," the announcer stated, immediately catching Bushroot's attention. "After an anonymous source came forward last night with invaluable information on the case, police are still looking for the missing Dr. Reginald Bushroot, naming him now as the prime suspect in the murders and also as the so-called 'plant-monster' seen by student witnesses on campus around the time of the grisly incident. It seems that Dr. Bushroot was running unusual scientific experiments on plants and was affected by them, changing him into a real life deadly nightshade of a plant creature that has been dubbed everything from the 'murderous morning glory' to the 'celery stalker'. Dr. Bushroot should be considered armed, unbalanced, and extremely dangerous, and citizens are advised to avoid him and report any sightings of him or irregular plant activity to their local authorities or the S.H.U.S.H. crime hotline immediately."

"An anonymous source… gee, I wonder who _that _could be," muttered Bushroot, feeling another stab of betrayal from the woman who had supposedly loved him. "I guess the saying that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned is true after all." He glanced over at Spike, who he noticed had stopped scurrying around and was now standing still with his muzzle pointed straight up, like he was sniffing the air.

"Spike, what's—?" Bushroot did not have the chance to finish before he heard a loud cracking noise and a subsequent crash above him. Fragments of one of the greenhouse's ceiling panels rained down on them both a second later, and as Bushroot spun around to see what had happened, he saw a yellow-black blur swish down through the hole in the roof. "Negaduck," he gasped, stepping back while Spike moved forward, growling defensively.

"That's _Lord_ Negaduck to you, Bush-Rot," Negaduck sneered back at him while his seedy-looking sidekick barged in through the greenhouse's door. "And I think it's past time to beat some respect into the neighborhood's cocky cabbage." He pulled out his chainsaw and revved it menacingly. "Coleslaw, anyone?"

Bushroot held out his hands in front of him. "I don't want to fight with you."

"No? Well that's too bad. You should've thought of that before you mouthed off to me about not fighting for me when I made my generous offer." Chainsaw roaring, Negaduck advanced on him. "Unless of course you're going to amuse me with a real good show of demeaning yourself by groveling and begging me for another chance."

"Whatever Rhoda told you about me and what happened at the university, I'm not what you think. I'm a scientist. I'm a—"

"She already told me in great detail about you and all of your shortcomings, to the point that she got downright boring and I wrote her the reward check just to shut her up," Negaduck cut him off. A cruel grin spanned his bill as he noted the hurt look in Bushroot's eyes as he said it. "She did tell me what sorts of things you can do and where to find you, though, and what matters most to you. Like this place, and your little leafy friends that you commune with. Pathetic. But then again, that's probably the best shot a washed-up researcher who's now a freak as well as a nerd can do."

Bushroot's expression darkened as his ego surged in response to the insults. It seemed that Negaduck brought out the very worst in him, but even in spite of that, Bushroot did not want to kill him. "Don't push me," he warned.

"Aw, what's the matter, sapling? Gonna cry?" taunted Negaduck. "Come on, do your worst. I haven't met a weed yet that can stand up to your every day weed-whacker." With that, he lunged at Bushroot with his chainsaw, while Bushroot telepathically called to his plant friends for help.

"All right. If that's how you want it, then that's how you'll get it," the resigned and angry Bushroot said, and motioned to a pumpkin vine growing nearby. "Squash them!" As soon as he gave the order, the plant started to grow and hurl its large fruits at both Negaduck and Launchpad. The former was able to dodge the pumpkins lobbed in his direction, but Launchpad was not as lucky. A large pumpkin with a rotten spot on the bottom hit and squished down over his head, blocking his vision and causing him to drop his weapon.

Meanwhile, Negaduck's chainsaw sliced through the final pumpkin thrown at him like a hot knife through butter. "It's out of season, but I always like a good pumpkin carving," he said with a vicious smile. "And trimming the hedges that've grown out of control." He advanced on Bushroot, but Spike leapt in and snapped down on Negaduck's leg, causing the masked crime lord to yowl in pain. Spike was no match for Negaduck, though, and the masked mallard proved it when he rammed the blunt end of his chainsaw down on Spike's head, knocking him off and leaving him unconscious on the ground. "Your plants are more bark than bite," he taunted as he came at Bushroot with the chainsaw again. "I'm going to enjoy cutting you down to size."

Bushroot narrowed his eyes. "I'm not as easily planted as you think." He cued a tomato plant to throw its fruit at Negaduck. Although the tomato projectiles did not hurt, they were incredibly annoying, especially when one splattered on his face and got behind his mask and into his eyes. While Negaduck stopped to wipe it out, Bushroot had his indoor palm trees shield him while he thought of a counter-attack. They drooped down a curtain of leaves in the space between Negaduck and Bushroot, which Negaduck cut through with his chainsaw once he recovered from the tomato assault. He did not quite get all the way through before his chainsaw began to sputter and sizzle, overheating at what Negaduck swore had to be the least convenient time. After muttering a few choice profanity-laden phrases he declared, "That's the last time I buy parts from that cheapskate fence downtown!"

With the situation now turned to his advantage, Bushroot glared at Negaduck. "Now we'll see how much _you_ like being turned under." He summoned a tangle of vines to sprout from the ground around Negaduck. "Pot that duck," he ordered, and Negaduck did not have time to get out of the way before the vines struck out and coiled around his limbs. They hoisted him up just high enough to throw him into a large clay pot that an oversized fern then proceeded to pack and fill with soil. "You should've just left me alone," Bushroot told Negaduck in a weary tone. "I didn't want to have to hurt anyone else, but you left me no choice." He nodded to his vines with a somber look. "Choke him out." He did not intend for the vines to kill Negaduck, but with the force it would take to render him unconscious, Negaduck would have broken ribs and painful sprains and bruises when he did wake up.

Before the vines made it back to Negaduck, however, Launchpad managed to free himself from his pumpkin helmet and he leapt onto Bushroot's garden tractor mower. "Don't worry, boss! I'll mow this weed down for you."

"Not unless you trim your upper management first," said Bushroot. He dove behind the pot containing Negaduck, who was busy trying to dig himself out with his bill since his hands and feet were packed into the soil.

When Negaduck saw Launchpad barreling toward them on the tractor, his eyes widened and he shouted frantically. "You idiot! Hit the brakes!"

"I am, I am!" Launchpad slammed his foot down, but instead of hitting the brakes, he hit the gas by mistake. Both Negaduck and Bushroot let out shouts of panic at once as the tractor roared toward them, and in a last-ditch effort to avoid hitting Negaduck, Launchpad jerked the wheel to the side. Fortunately for Negaduck, the tractor swerved so that it missed him and just glanced off of the giant flower pot. The force of the impact knocked the pot over, dumping Negaduck and the soil out onto the floor. As Negaduck got back onto his feet and shook off the dirt, he heard another scream, one of such delicious pain and misery that it warmed the twisted depths of his soul. When Bushroot had run to avoid being hit by the tractor, he had inadvertently run right into the new path it took when Launchpad hit the flower pot. Sticky sap-covered shards of plant matter sprayed out from under the tractor's blades, and shreds of purple petals floated up into the air around them.

Surveying the scene with a smug look on his beak, Negaduck eyed the pile of mulch that was once Dr. Reginald Bushroot. "Nice going, Launchpad," he said as he kicked at a glob of the plant-duck's shredded body. "It figures the only time you manage to get something right is in the middle of a screw up. Well, at least you're good for_ that_ much."

Oblivious to the sarcasm in Negaduck's tone, Launchpad chuckled at the back-handed complement. "Thanks, boss."

Negaduck headed for the door. "Come on, let's get out of here. This place reeks of fertilizer."

Launchpad nodded and followed, kicking a thick chunk of wood that had once been part of Bushroot's leg aside. "Yeah, but at least we won't be getting any more of it from him."

* * *

By the time the sun rose the following morning, a new plant was growing in the dirt floor of Bushroot's greenhouse. From a distance, it looked like a thriving head of cabbage. _What an odd place to grow that,_ the visitor to the greenhouse thought when he saw it, especially when he also noticed how the rest of the plants seemed to be in some kind of order, grouped either by species or type, such as flowers with flowers and vegetables with vegetables. But then again, he supposed that Reginald Bushroot had been deemed a mad scientist by the media for a reason. Not that he had much room to talk. Everyone thought he was crazy, too. It could be that they were right. One could certainly argue that no one with sanity, or at least common sense, willingly made an enemy of Negaduck.

"Hey! You! How about some water over here, huh?"

The visitor stopped in his tracks when he heard the voice. "Water?" he repeated, looking around for whoever was talking to him. "Who said that?" _Now I _know_ I'm not crazy enough that I hear_ _voices. At least not like that… _He still did not see anyone or anything other than a bunch of plants.

"Please?" it spoke again, taking on a pleading note. "You've got no idea how thirsty I am."

"Who's there?" The visitor still did not see anything except … _Uh, did that fly trap just move?_

"Spike'll show you where the hose is," the disembodied voice answered. Then, to the visitor's amazement, the plant he thought he saw move_ did_ actually move. The fly trap ran on little root-like feet over to a wall that had a hose attached to a spigot that it then used its leaves to turn on. Blinking, he stared at the curious creature, which did not even really have a face but still managed look as though it was smiling as it held out the hose nozzle for him to take.

"I, uh, I really don't like to get wet," he said with a bit of hesitation as he took the hose. "Where are you?"

"Right here," it said, and suddenly he realized that he had been staring at the source the entire time. It was the odd cabbage planted in the walkway.

_The cabbage is talking?_ "Okay," he said, eyeing it with a look of disbelief as he went over to it. When he got there, he was shocked to discover that the cabbage had a duck's bill.

"Ooh, that's nice. Thank you," said the cabbage as the visitor watered the ground around it. "Perfect! Now all I need is some sun and some good music, and I'm set. Say, you wouldn't know how to re-pot a growing nycanthropus, would you?"

He shook his head. "No. I never did much gardening."

"Oh, that's okay. It's easy. I'll walk you through it if you want. You can start with that big pot over by the bench, the black one with the green stripe around the rim. I always liked that one. There's a trowel you can use over there, too." It paused, and seemed to look up at him. "By the way, what're you doing in my greenhouse? Who are you?"

"A friend," he answered, "at least, I think." He knelt beside the cabbage and examined it curiously through his thick safety goggles. "Are you by any chance Dr. Reginald Bushroot?"

The duck bill on the cabbage nodded back to him. "I will be when I grow up again," it quipped cheerfully. "What's your name?"

The yellow jump-suited rat smiled down at the re-growing Bushroot. "Megavolt."

* * *

"…and that's how I met Megavolt," Bushroot finished, folding his leaf hands together as he concluded his tale to the dinner table audience. "It was through him that I met Quackerjack, and later on we met Liquidator and officially became the Friendly Four."

"Which in spite of having to deal with Negaduck has still been a real blast," Quackerjack said with a grin.

Megavolt nodded along with the toy-maker. "I've certainly gotten a charge out of it a time or two."

"What happened then?" Gosalyn asked, looking from Bushroot to Megavolt.

"I dug him up and put him in a pot, and then set him up in a sunny spot so he could grow faster."

Gosalyn gave Megavolt a sweet smile. "That was nice of you."

"Well, he needed some help, and I already had a feeling that Bushroot was someone I should talk to," Megavolt explained. "That's why I went to the greenhouse to begin with. I figured if Negaduck hated him enough to go after him personally as well as sic S.H.U.S.H. on him by making him out to be a public threat, there had to be more to the story, and he must've done something that Negaduck really didn't like beyond attacking a couple of scientists at the university." A sly smile curled the corners of Megavolt's mouth. "And since the things that Negaduck hates are generally things that I approve of, and I never take what the media says at face value anyway, I thought I'd look into it and find out if Negaduck's latest enemy might make a good friend."

After giving Megavolt a wan smile, Bushroot turned to Gosalyn. "I hope you don't think I'm a rotten vegetable for what I did and what I was like before I fought Negaduck. I'm not proud of it. I've often wished I could set it all right… but you can't change the past."

Gosalyn reached over and put her hand on Bushroot's arm, looking up at him with warm and innocent eyes. "I don't think you're bad, Bushroot. I know you're sorry. You're good now, and everyone knows that. You helped me and Tank, and helped save us and lots of others. You wouldn't hurt someone now."

Her simple but genuine acceptance and forgiveness was almost enough to choke him up. "Thank you, Gosalyn. You're right; I wouldn't hurt someone on purpose now. I promise you that."

"I like to think that anyone can change if they want to," Tank said, taking on a bit of a wistful look as he continued. "I often wish that my parents and my brother might someday."

Liquidator gave the boy a kind smile. "Research suggests that anything is possible."

"And until then, you've got us," Quackerjack said. He reached over and gave Tank an impromptu hug and then held up Mr. Banana Brain to add his two cents.

"Me too, Lou!"

It was then that Quackerjack noticed how little dessert was left on Mr. Banana Brain's plate. While Bushroot had been telling his story, Tank had stealthily scarfed down the majority of it. "Mr. Banana Brain, you managed to eat all of that pie?"

"He was most hungry this evening," said Tank, while everyone else at the table smirked knowing what had really happened to it.

Quackerjack made a melodramatic tsk-tsk gesture to Mr. Banana Brain. "Well I should say so. Don't you complain to me if you get heartburn tonight."

"I feel great, Nate," he had Mr. Banana Brain reply, while Gosalyn giggled at their exchange.

"Even so," Liquidator said, rising to a standing position with his glass in hand, "the surgeon general recommends putting the pie away before anyone else can overeat dessert this close to bedtime. The lighthouse living room provides even more comfortable accommodations for our continued story telling."

Gosalyn stood up and picked up the pie plate, which had only a couple of slivers left on it. "I'll put this away."

"I think we can all help you clean up," said Bushroot.

He and the others began gathering their plates. "As long as I don't have to wash any dishes, I'm fine," Megavolt said, carrying leftovers to the refrigerator while the others brought their dishes to the sink. Gosalyn and Tank took turns holding up the dirty plates while Liquidator shot powerful streams of water at them to give them a power-rinse before Quackerjack loaded them into Megavolt's super-powered dishwasher. He had tinkered with that particular model to make it so that all the dishes washed in it came out not only completely clean, but totally dry as well. Rinsing beforehand was not even necessary, but Liquidator's abilities were too convenient for that to not put to use.

Once all of that was taken care of, the Friendly Four and their wards headed into the living room. Gosalyn sat down on the right side of Megavolt's old couch, while Megavolt sat in the middle and Tank sat on the opposite side of him. "So you'd already been fighting with Negaduck for a while when you met Bushroot?" Gosalyn asked Megavolt.

"Yup. For a long time."

"And Megavolt had already known Quackerjack for a while when we met," Bushroot said. "Those two go way back."

Quackerjack playfully bonked Megavolt on top of his helmet as he passed by on his way to the room's easy chair. "Not nearly as far back as Megsy and Negsy, though."

"Oh yeah, like it's been this nice friendly rivalry," Megavolt said sarcastically. "It's more like we've been at each other's throats since then. He's been a real pain in the socket ever since I first ran into him in high school."

"You've been fighting with Negaduck since high school?" asked a surprised Gosalyn.

"Unfortunately," said Megavolt.

"Wow!" Gosalyn blinked. "It's too bad you haven't been able to win after fighting him for so long."

Although her phrasing could have been better, Megavolt knew there was no snide intent behind it and just nodded. "Yeah, it is."

Tank looked at his guardian with a curious look. "How did that start, if I may ask?"

"My senior year, in the school's science lab, when I got these powers," Megavolt began. "But that only happened through a chain of unforeseen and unfortunate events…"


	6. Part Two, Chapter One

**Part Two: Megavolt**

**Chapter One**

"Thanks for helping me out, Elmo," the burly porcine student, Ham String, said to the short and lanky rat as he handed him a five dollar bill in exchange for the papers that he in turn gave him.

"Physics homework is easy," Elmo Sputterspark boasted on a proud note. "Completing that for my fellow students is an easy profit." He stuffed the money into his wallet and then that into his pocket. Despite his casual attire of jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers that were far less preppy than anything the other-verse Elmo Sputterspark would have ever worn to school, the Elmo of the Negaverse was equally bright and shrewd. At his young age he had never been in anything other than the school's most advanced and gifted classes, and his forward manner ensured that everyone knew just how smart he was. Of course, the teachers had no idea that he had a rather profitable business doing the homework of lazier students for a cut of their allowance cash. Since the Elmo of the Negaverse also had a bit of a short fuse, as it had been dubbed by more than one person, it was a well-kept secret and no one wanted to be the one responsible for blowing his racket. Bright as he was, Elmo had rather innovative ways of getting even with those who charged up his temper.

The latest example of that was exactly what was on Preena Lot's mind as she weaved her way through the busy halls toward Elmo in the brief time before the bell would ring for the first class of the day. Shy and studious, the Preena of the Negaverse was a stark contrast to the social-climbing and snooty Preena of Darkwing's world. Her brown hair was neatly brushed and simply styled while her clothes were nice but nondescript, much like many of her classmates would have described her. Few knew Preena very well because she was so introverted, but Elmo and Ham were two classmates that knew her a little better than most. "Hi, guys," she greeted them with a smile, one mostly focused on Elmo. She had a bit of a crush on the rat, but he did not know about it. Preena supposed it was better that way, anyway, because she would have _died_ if he knew and laughed about it, like he laughed about so many other things unpredictably.

"Preena, hi!" Ham greeted her with a warm and boyish smile. The student who was the star quarterback and high school bully in the other-verse was a clean-cut and well-spoken youth in the Negaverse. Although he was strong and never had a problem in gym class, he was disinterested in sports and preferred to watch movies and hang out with his friends after class instead of joining any teams. One of the things he had in common with Elmo, his friend in the Negaverse, was an interest in "out there" things such as science fiction books, movies, and comics. Ham did not have Elmo's brains, which was one of the reasons he paid his friend to keep him from flunking physics and getting his hide tanned by his mother, but he did have a good sense of humor. He also had eyes for Preena Lot, although much like her interest in Elmo, she had no idea because he was too shy to approach her. Despite his easygoing manner, Ham was incredibly nervous around girls, especially after Samantha Fennix, one of the senior class' most popular and gorgeous cheerleaders, had shot him down in flames when he asked her out in a humiliating display that the entire lunch room had been witness to not long ago.

"Hi, Ham," Preena answered automatically, with just a quick and polite glance in the pig's direction before she turned back to Elmo. She leaned in close, lowering her voice. "I heard that someone rigged up Drake Mallard's locker so that a bag of dog crap fell on him when he opened it this morning." She looked at Elmo with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Do you know anything about that?"

A devious grin spanned Elmo's features. "I know that the combinations to the locks on our lockers are incredibly easy to discern with use of the proper implements, and that Drake the Dickhead is in the statistically highest percentile to evoke such juvenile and retaliatory behavior out of the average student at St. Canard High."

Ham chortled while Preena put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. "I don't believe you did that. Does he know it was you?"

"He would have a difficult time proving it, considering I don't even have a dog and it was Aaron Webwich he got into a fight with in the parking lot after school yesterday."

Preena raised an eyebrow. "Oh my god, did Aaron have you do it?"

Elmo's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I will neither confirm nor deny that accusation."

"Dude, how much did he pay you?" chortled Ham. "And you've sure got balls screwing with Mallard."

Elmo just shrugged. "He started it."

"Yeah, that wedgie he gave you in the hall last week was a crap thing to do," said Ham.

Preena glanced over her shoulder as the subject of their conversation, the dark-eyed and angry teenage duck that was the Negaverse's Drake Mallard, came down the hall toward them amidst students who gave him a wide berth and whose conversations dropped to a whisper as he passed. Drake Mallard, or "Drake the Dickhead" as many among the student body called him, was the most disliked and feared individual at St. Canard High. What friends the school's nastiest bully had were more like his yes-men or minions, mean-spirited and often cowardly individuals who did whatever he told them to avoid being on his hit-list. Drake was not a particularly strong or big kid, but he was universally regarded by the various school cliques as a tough guy that one did not mess with. His red leather jacket that "hid the blood stains" as he would sneer to those he threatened, and the serrated hunting knife that everyone knew he carried despite the school's rules about such things only served to enhance his reputation as St. Canard High's Number One Bad Boy.

Elmo was not inclined to get into a physical confrontation with Drake, although it was no secret that he did not like him. He'd had run-ins with Drake before, the latest of which was the unfortunate wedgie incident that Ham mentioned. However, Elmo could not resist the chance to give the bullying duck a little needling, proud as he was of his handiwork in this particularly smell-tacular round of retribution. He sniffed at the air as Drake drew nearer and asked his friends in a louder than normal voice, "Wow, did someone step in something on the way in?" Preena just pursed her mouth shut to hold back the giggle that would have escaped otherwise, while Ham poorly stifled a snicker.

Drake did not find it nearly as amusing and he stopped short by them, giving Elmo a glare as sharp as his infamous knife. "Something _funny_, Sputter-geek?"

"Just the unmistakable smell of humiliation."

Seething, Drake grabbed Elmo roughly by the collar and got in his face while the students around, especially Preena, gasped in alarm and stared. "Hey!" Ham objected, but his resolve became shaky when Drake flashed him a murderous look. "Back off," Ham told him, standing as straight as he could and showing courage he did not really feel. Although Ham was stronger and more solid in build, Drake's reputation gave everyone, even students twice his size like Ham, pause.

Right then the bell rang, and Drake let go of Elmo with a snarl and shoved him backwards. "You're gonna get yours. Nobody screws with Drake Mallard. You got that? _Nobody_. Especially not a loser like you." He glanced over at Ham. "And if you've got any brains in that thick skull, Pork Chop, you'll keep your fat mouth shut and stay out of it." With that he turned and stormed down the hall in the direction of his first period class, while Elmo smoothed out his shirt and Ham breathed a sigh of relief.

"Man, Mallard is such a dick," said a duck student in the crowd nearby, while several others murmured in agreement.

"Yeah, well, he's called 'Drake the Dickhead' for a reason, you know?" Ham quipped, eliciting laughs and snickers from some of the other students. Preena, meanwhile, went to Elmo's side.

"Are you all right? You didn't get any… dog pooh on you, did you?" She looked over the rat's shirt, while he shook his head.

"No, I'm fine."

Preena smiled and fluttered her eyelashes at him in a way that was subtle only to someone as clueless as Elmo was when it came to dating. "You were really brave to stand up to Drake like that, you know."

"Oh, well, it was no big deal. It's not like he could've done anything to me in front of half the school," Elmo said offhandedly, leaving the smile on Ham's face to fade as he watched Preena gush all over the rat instead of him.

_I tell Mallard to back down and she calls _him_ brave?_ Ham sighed inwardly, thinking as he turned to head into the classroom that life sure was unfair at times, especially when it came to girls and mind-numbing first period physics classes.

* * *

Later that afternoon during the second to last class of the day, Elmo sat at his desk working on the notes for his ongoing science project. It was not due for another couple of weeks, but it had an interesting premise and he preferred to get his ideas down when the inspiration struck him. Much like his counterpart, the Negaverse's Elmo had always had a touch of the scatterbrain to him, and he hated it when he forgot important details of something because he was bogged down in another project. Sometimes that was inconvenient, like when such inspiration struck in the middle of his English teacher's riveting, oh-so-riveting, lecture on _A Tale of Two Suburbs_. That was why Elmo's notebooks were all full of random doodles and diagrams in their margins that for the most part had very little to do with the actual subject he was supposed to be taking notes on. Fortunately, that particular class period was just a study hall, and Elmo and the rest of the students could work on whatever they felt like doing… or not work at all, such as in the case of Drake Mallard. The mean-faced duck was sitting at his desk loudly cracking his knuckles and glaring at whatever student he felt like intimidating at the moment.

About ten minutes into the class, the teacher had to excuse herself for a moment, and she left with just a brief reminder to the students that she expected them to behave accordingly in her absence. It was just the opportunity that Drake Mallard had been waiting for. The locker incident had left him in a foul mood all day and he was raring to take it out on someone. Unfortunately, Aaron Webwich was not in the class and Elmo Sputterspark was seated across the room, so he ended up focusing on Lenny, the quiet student that had the misfortune of sitting behind him.

After yanking the pencil out of Lenny's hand, Drake slammed his hand down on the other student's notebook and tossed the pencil over his shoulder. "Whatcha working on there?"

"My math homework," Lenny said, clearly annoyed but subdued enough to not egg Drake on further. "And I really need to finish it before class starts." He stood up to retrieve his pencil, but Drake also stood and shook his hand in a tsk-tsk manner.

"Ah-ah-ah, remember what Mrs. Waddlesworth said. 'No funny business'," he sneered in a mockery of the teacher's high-pitched voice. "Better stay in your seat like a good boy."

Another student nearby, a duck named Winona Webley, rolled her eyes. "You're one to talk, Drake."

Drake flashed her a snide look. "No one asked you, Whine-ona." He returned his attention to Lenny, who he blocked in his attempt to go down the aisle and get his pencil.

"Come on," Lenny said with a sigh.

"Make me." Drake sneered at him, enjoying the other student's obvious frustration.

"Seriously, I don't want my algebra grade to get any lower." Lenny frowned and tried to go around Drake, but the bully just folded his arms and shifted his stance so that he remained in his way in a dangerous manner that just dared Lenny to try and force his way past.

Preena watched from two rows over and thought about how she would like to say something to Drake herself, but Winona Webley beat her to the punch. "Yeah, some people actually care whether they pass," she remarked with obvious sarcasm.

"And some of us can pass without having to pay Elmo Egghead to do our homework for us," Drake retorted to Winona with a knowing look.

Winona flushed, her cheeks reddening beneath her feathers. "I do not!"

"Really?" Drake leaned over and put his hand on her desk, staring down at her with a look that made her squirm in her seat. "So you were hanging out at his locker making eyes at him because you actually like him?" He pursed his beak in a mocking kissy-face. "Buck-toothed geeks turn you on?"

Winona's cheeks turned redder. "Shut up!"

At that point every student in the room, including Elmo, was watching. His expression had darkened at the jab Drake made at him, but he did not say anything yet. Preena stared at Drake and Winona in disbelief, and she wondered if Drake the Dickhead was simply living up to his nickname or if he was telling the truth about Winona liking Elmo. She then cast a sidelong glance at the rat while Ham eyed Drake with disgust. He was indifferent towards Winona, as they ran in different social circles, but given his dislike of Drake Mallard he fell on her side by default.

"You're an ass, Mallard." Everyone turned and gawked at Ham in surprise, and even the quiet pig himself was somewhat startled by how readily he spoke and the words that came out of his mouth.

Drake, meanwhile, sneered. "Jealous, huh, Pork Chop? It must suck to have girls shoot you down for the biggest nerd this side of the bay."

Elmo began tapping his pencil with a glower on his face, while Preena gave him a sympathetic look before shooting Drake a disgusted, if not defensive, one. Meanwhile, Ham retorted angrily to Drake, "Oh, shut your beak before I tweak it for you."

"Yeah," huffed Winona.

Ignoring Winona, Drake went over to Ham's desk and gave him his most intimidating look. "You, and what army?" He glanced over at Elmo. "Sputter-geek? Or maybe Preena Prissy-lot?"

Preena flushed where she sat, an indignant look on her face, while Ham's temper began to slip. "Leave her alone," he warned.

It was all the invitation Drake needed to move in for the kill, especially once he noticed how Preena seemed to flinch whenever he looked at her. "Yeah, prissy Preena probably _would _have a better chance at kicking my ass."

"Just shut up, Drake." Preena's protest was more like a whisper, and she felt her cheeks growing hotter by the moment as she was singled out for his attention, all eyes in the class on them both.

"I love it when you talk sweet," Drake said with honeyed sarcasm, leaning over to get in her face. "But you might make your boyfriend there jealous."

Ham scowled, both at the personal shot and at how the bully was treating Preena. "I said, 'leave her alone', Mallard."

Drake turned and laughed at Ham. "I didn't mean _you_, Ham Bone. Everyone here knows you can't get a date. I meant Geek-spark. She's always paying him to do her homework, too. Either that or she's with Winona in the 'I have the hots for nerds' club." Winona let out an angry gasp at that, while Preena just glared up with a humiliated look on her face.

"I do not have the hots for _Elmo_," Winona announced haughtily. "For your information, I'm going to the prom with Hank Beakland."

"I'll be sure to give him my condolences," Drake snorted before turning to Preena again. "What about you, Preenie? You going with Ham Bone, or Sputterspark?"

"It's none of your business," Preena said, looking away.

With a mean-spirited smirk, Drake plopped himself down in the empty chair behind Preena and slid it over closer to Elmo's desk. "She's not talking, Elmo, so I'll go straight to the brains of the operation. Are you getting laid by Preena on prom night, or is she just giving you false hope that someone like you will ever get any so you'll do her homework for her?"

Elmo frowned at Drake. "I refuse to dignify that lowbrow remark with an answer."

Drake made a dramatic face. "Oooh. Silence implies the answer is 'B'. All those who had their money on Sputter-dork having no life can collect."

Sniffing at the air, Elmo said, "You need me to loan you some of my profits so you can get that smell out of your jacket? Maybe then _you_ can get a date."

"Your mom's busy that night; I already checked," sneered Drake. "Maybe because she's already taking you." He turned around. "So maybe I'll take Preenie. How'd you like that, sweets?"

Preena recoiled in disgust. "I'd rather go with, well, just about anyone other than you."

"Which goes to show you don't have any taste and why you always hang around with losers." Drake then looked over at Elmo and added, "Who are so pathetic it defies comprehension."

Elmo chortled. "Four syllables. I'm impressed."

Drake glared back at the rat. "Just because I don't kiss the science teachers' asses or spend all my weekends studying doesn't mean I'm stupid, Egghead. It means I have a life. But since you don't, I think you can do my math homework since Lenny obviously can't afford you," he said with a quick glance over at his original target, who had since gone back to attempting to finish his work despite the chaos in the unmonitored classroom.

Narrowing his eyes, Elmo told Drake, "For you, I'll only charge triple."

Drake rose to his feet and glared down menacingly at the still seated Elmo. "No, I think you'll do it for free. Or maybe you'll even pay _me_ for the privilege, since you owe me a dry cleaning bill."

Elmo began to feel a bit nervous under the angry bully's gaze, but he tried not to show it and feigned ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Snarling again, Drake reached down and grabbed the rat by the collar just like he had in the hall earlier. "I think you do. And I think that if you don't pay me, I'll beat it out of your scrawny hide, he threatened, while Preena gasped in horror.

"Drake, stop!"

"Ooh, little miss nerd-lover-in-denial is jealous." Drake turned and gave her a lewd look. "Don't worry, honey, there's plenty of action left for you."

"You're disgusting," she retorted.

"And you're going to get us_ all_ in trouble," another student chimed in from the front of the room.

"No he's not!" the now thoroughly fed up Ham exclaimed, and then lunged at Drake. The duck did not expect the sudden move and he only barely had time to turn around before the burlier Ham grabbed him and slammed him against a desk, resulting in loud gasps from the other students. "I've had it with you and your big beak, Mallard. Maybe a good tweak'll teach you when to shut it." Ham then reached around and grabbed Drake's bill, pulling down on it roughly so that it jarred his entire face.

Elmo snickered along with some other students who were also laughing at seeing the bully get some comeuppance. "Looks like fun, Ham. Let me get one in."

Before he could, however, Mrs. Waddlesworth returned and she gasped at what she saw upon entering the classroom. "Ham! What's going on? Let him go!"

Ham froze when he heard the teacher's voice, and Drake managed to break out of his grip on his own before Ham actually let go of him. He turned and shot Ham a murderous glare. "You're going to regret that."

"Break it up, now!" Mrs. Waddlesworth said sternly, stepping between the boys. "What happened here?" She let out an irritable sigh. "I thought being that this was a room of seniors who are s_upposed _to be nearly adults that they might act like it for five minutes unsupervised."

"Ham Bone here lost his temper and jumped me," Drake said with a cold smile.

"Is that true?" Mrs. Waddlesworth eyed Ham for an answer.

"He was shooting off his mouth."

"That's _no_ excuse!" the teacher exclaimed. "Ham, go to the principal's office. Now."

Ham frowned. "But Mrs. Waddlesworth—"

"Now."

It was clear from her tone that she was not going to hear an argument, so Ham began to gather his books and muttered under his breath. "Fine."

Mrs. Waddlesworth turned to Drake. "And you go back to your seat and do something productive instead of socializing. This is called _study _hall for a reason."

As he was leaving, Ham saw Drake nod and give the teacher an insincere smile as he returned to his desk, and he felt even worse when he heard Preena murmur some words of sympathy to Elmo with nary a mention of him at all.

* * *

After school, Ham was still in a foul mood as he went out to the parking lot where his car was parked. Like many of his fellow students, Ham's car was an old beater that was nothing to brag about, except that it was his and he did not have to share it with his parents, which put him at least a few cool points above the kids that drove nicer, but still "Mom's" or "Dad's" car to school every day. Of course, both groups were a step up from being one of the underclassmen too young to drive who had to take the bus. As he made his way to his car, Ham saw Elmo standing by his with its hood open. The rat had a puzzled look on his face as he stared down at the engine.

"Did it break down?" Ham asked, eyeing Elmo's vehicle with a raised eyebrow. It was not a high end model either, but that was not why Ham—not to mention a number of other students—often laughed at it. The fact that it was a station wagon painted a blazing bright orange with electric blue trim, and that it was not that way because Elmo could not afford a better paint job but because he _wanted_ it that way, was what garnered those giggles.

"No, just seeing if I could tweak its performance with an idea I had," Elmo answered him. Although the Negaverse's Elmo shared the inventive brilliance of his counterpart in the other-verse, unlike him he enjoyed tinkering with cars and engines in his high school days. Some of his innovative ideas had even earned him the respect of the auto shop crowd, one of the many cliques that had mercilessly mocked his preppy "science nerd" self in the other-verse. After a moment Elmo closed the hood and grinned at Ham. "Speaking of tweaks, I'm still disappointed I didn't get to get one in on Drake the Dickhead's beak before Mrs. Waddlesworth showed up."

"Yeah, well, you can be glad you missed having Mr. Primley going on and on to you about how it's 'beneath an upstanding young man such as you' to 'get into brawls with his fellow students' and that it was 'disgraceful and disrespectful', blah blah blah," Ham said with a roll of his eyes.

"I don't know. To bring Drake down a peg it might even be worth that." Elmo grinned, and a telltale smile of guilty satisfaction crossed Ham's features as well.

"It was pretty cool," he admitted before he caught sight of Preena in the distance and his voice trailed off. She was talking to some of her female friends who were all gathered by one of their cars. "Hey Elmo," Ham said after a moment, "Do you think Preena likes me?"

Elmo followed his gaze over toward Preena and nodded. "Yeah, why? She seems to like you when we talk to her." He chortled again, thinking of the incident with Drake earlier. "I don't think Drake should hold his breath about her accepting his prom invitation though."

Ham's gaze darkened again. "That guy really burns me up. He'd be lucky to get a date like her for the prom." He paused again. "Are you going to that?"

Elmo just shrugged as if it was rather trivial. "I don't know. Maybe."

"You didn't ask anyone, though?" Ham said curiously.

"No." He gave Ham a curious look. "You think I should?"

That time it was Ham's turn to give Elmo a puzzled look. "Don't you want to go?"

"Social events that involve dressing up in uncomfortable suits and showing off the extent of my ineptness at dancing don't appeal to me much."

Ham leaned on the neighboring car curiously. "So there's no one you want to ask?"

Elmo just looked back at him as if it was a strange new idea. "Why? Do you think there's someone I should ask?"

Shaking his head, Ham said, "Nah. Not really. I was just curious. I might ask someone, though." He looked in Preena's direction again, but she had already gotten into her friend's car, which was now in the process of backing out.

"Well, good luck with it," Elmo said as he retrieved his keys from his pocket and climbed into the driver's seat of his car. "See you later."

"Yeah. See ya," Ham replied, and then headed off to his own car.

* * *

The next morning before school started, Elmo drove in and parked his car just as usual. Unlike most days, though, someone came over to greet him as soon as he got out. He had not even taken two steps toward the school building when Drake Mallard approached him with his arms folded and a malicious gleam in his eyes. "Morning, Sputter-geek."

"What do you want, Drake?" Elmo asked with a frown.

"I'm just here to collect my math homework and my fee." Drake held out his hand.

Narrowing his eyes, Elmo tried to push past Drake and did his best to ignore the sense of unease that being out alone in the parking lot with someone like Drake the Dickhead left him with. "Oh, you were serious about that."

Elmo's nonchalant response was enough to light Drake's already short fuse, and he grabbed the rat roughly, pushing him backwards against his car. "I'm always serious when I talk business, Egghead. And this time your pal Pork Rind isn't here to try and save your ass." He punched Elmo in the gut, and while the rat was reeling from the blow, Drake pulled out his hunting knife and held it over Elmo menacingly.

"What're you…?" Any remaining attitude Elmo might have given Drake vanished as soon as he saw the knife, and his words died in his throat right along with it. He did not have the chance to do anything before Drake brought his other fist down hard on Elmo's stomach once more.

"Shut up." Drake then plunged his knife into Elmo's front tire and sliced downward with it, leaving a large gash. As Elmo was recovering from being hit, he saw Drake go to the rear wheel on the same side and do the same thing, and then continue on until he had slashed all four tires. "Now your tires match the rest of this ugly piece of junk. Since you weren't going to pay up, buying a set of new tires'll make us about even." He sneered at him. "You're lucky I'm in a generous mood today. You can tell Ham he's next." Drake then slammed his fist down on Elmo's hood hard enough to leave a dent before he turned around and headed off into the school.

"I hate that guy," Elmo thought miserably as he watched Drake leave and collected his books from the front seat.

* * *

Elmo was waiting on the lunch line when a familiar voice greeted him from behind. "Oh, hi, Preena," he said as she approached.

"I heard that Drake the Dickhead slashed your tires this morning." She gave him a sympathetic look. "That guy is so low."

"If he didn't live up to his name, people would stop calling him it." Elmo picked up a tray and surveyed the choices for lunch. None looked terribly promising, but the grilled cheese seemed the least objectionable, so he picked that.

"Somebody really ought to beat the crap out of him once and for all. I swear, if there was a section in the yearbook for 'most likely to wind up on the national most wanted list', it'd be Drake Mallard."

Elmo picked up the small brownie offered as dessert and made a face. "He'd take that as a complement, I'm sure."

"That's the sad part," Preena muttered, their conversation taking a brief pause as they reached the end of the lunch line. Once the two of them paid they headed for an empty table in the cafeteria where Preena automatically joined Elmo, which, much to her chagrin, he did not take any particular notice of or attach any real significance to. "So," she said after a pause, smiling at the rat, "how're you going to get home?"

With a sigh Elmo said, "I'm going to have to get a ride and then call a tow truck, probably."

"Did you tell anyone in the office? Maybe you can get him detention or even suspended or something."

Elmo shook his head. "I don't want to make him any madder than he already is. He says we're 'even' so I'll forget it for now." There was a devious twinkle in his eyes for a moment. "Besides, in a day or two I can probably come up with something even better that tops his morning locker surprise."

Preena giggled. "Oooh, what're you planning?"

"I don't know yet," Elmo admitted, "but give me time."

A sweet smile crossed Preena's features. "Maybe you could get even with him at the prom. That'd be the _worst_, to have that ruined in front of the whole class."

"Yeah." Elmo took a bite of his grilled cheese and gave a nod of agreement.

Eyeing him coyly, Preena asked, "Are you, um, going to the prom?"

Elmo gave her an odd look. "Is that everyone's favorite question or what?"

"What do you mean?" she replied, surprised by his answer.

"Ham asked me about that yesterday. If I was going, who I was going with, all that." He shrugged. "Who cares? I don't even like school dances."

"They can be boring sometimes," Preena said in hesitant agreement, "but the prom is usually cool. The junior one was."

"I didn't go to that."

"Well then you shouldn't miss the senior one just in case, right? _Especially_ if you get a chance to get even with Drake the Dickhead."

Elmo glanced around the lunch room, where he noticed Drake—who was not usually in his lunch period—leaning against the door talking to a duck girl that he only recognized as a junior but whose name he did not recall. "If he even goes. You're a girl. Would any of you actually go with him?" he asked with a sarcastic smile.

Preena made a face. "_I _sure wouldn't. But Loretta Featherston over there might. I heard she broke up with Sam Waddlestride yesterday and he hates Drake, and… yeah, she's definitely flirting with him. Ew. Sam Waddlestride isn't great either, but I'd go with him before Drake Mallard any day of the week."

"I don't blame you." Elmo took another bite of his sandwich and then gave Preena a curious look, remembering Drake's badgering of her the day before about that. "Who are you going with, anyway?"

Glancing down at her plate, Preena poked at her food with her fork. "Oh, um, well, I don't know." She began twirling the fork a little more nervously as she gave Elmo a sidelong glance. "I mean, no one's asked me."

"Really?" Elmo blinked in genuine surprise.

"So," she drew out the word in an attempt to sound casual, "I guess neither of us have a date then."

Elmo nodded. "Yeah." He paused as an idea occurred to him due to Preena's subtle-as-a-sledgehammer suggestion, but not for the reasons she hoped. "Hey, do you want to go together, then?"

Preena's face lit up with delight. "You mean go with you as your date?" she asked, barely able to contain her elation at the thought.

Elmo missed it, however, and assumed that she was enthused for the same reason he was—that the "who to go with" question had been resolved. "Sure. You said I should go."

"Oh yeah, absolutely!" Preena gushed. "It'll be so much fun. I can't wait."

"Me either," Elmo said, although his eyes were on Drake Mallard as he said it, and he was thinking about how he would go about making that night a truly miserable one for him to remember.


	7. Part Two, Chapter Two

**Part Two: Megavolt**

**Chapter Two**

After the last class of the day, Ham made his way toward Preena's locker in the hopes of catching her before she left. He had been waiting and working up the nerve all day for the opportunity to ask her to the prom. He was glad to find her by herself, with none of her girl friends around to witness, just in case she shot him down. He was still gun-shy from Samantha Fennix's public rejection, although in retrospect he had convinced himself that he did not really like her anyway, so it was no big deal.

"Hi, Preena," he said as he approached, and she turned around and greeted him with a friendly smile.

"Hi, Ham."

"Hey, uh…" Ham tried to quell his anxiousness while Preena waited in silence for him to finish whatever it was that he was going to say. "I was wondering… well, um, I was wondering if you'd like to go to the prom with me." He finally got it out in a fast rush, and then followed it with a nervous and hopeful smile.

At first she just blinked in surprise, and then a conciliatory smile formed on her lips. "Oh, wow. I…" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully so as to not offend him. "That's really nice of you to ask, but someone already asked me."

Ham's heart sank. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't know."

"That's okay," Preena said as she closed her locker. "I'm still flattered."

Ham summoned the most casual tone he could manage while he did his best to not let on just how disappointed he was. "So, ah, who're you going with?"

"Elmo, actually." Preena brightened as she said his name, which made Ham feel a surge of resentment toward his friend.

_Why is he getting all the breaks with her? He said he didn't even want to go!_

Preena noticed Ham's expression, and not fully understanding the reason for it, offered him a sympathetic smile. "Hey, you know, I don't think anyone's asked Pansy yet." Pansy Patterson was a friend of Preena's that Ham was acquainted with, although the two did not know one another well. Unfortunately Preena's misguided attempt to make Ham feel better wound up making him feel worse, and he turned around, wanting to get away before things could get any more awkward.

"It's ok. Don't worry about it. See ya later."

"Ok," Preena said softly. Ham could feel her gaze linger on him for a moment before she turned and left, and it made him feel even more conspicuous. He quickened his pace in the opposite direction, but no sooner did he turn the corner than he ran into the sneering form of Drake Mallard, who gesticulated a rude crash-and-burn noise.

"Awww, poor Ham Bone, rejected in favor of Egghead Sputter-freak. That's really gotta hurt." Drake laughed viciously, while Ham scowled and balled his hand into a fist.

"Shut your beak, Mallard, before I tweak it _again_ for you."

"I'd like to see you try." Drake tensed in anticipation of a scuffle. "The only reason you got a hold of me in study hall is because I didn't think you had the balls to try anything like that in class, Porky. It won't happen again." A cold smirk crossed his bill. "By the way, I hope you weren't planning on driving home. Your tires had an unfortunate accident… just like your good girlfriend-filching buddy Elmo's."

Hearing that Drake had slashed his tires was the bitter icing on the already miserable cake that was his afternoon, and Ham's arm twitched with unspent anger as he regarded Drake. "You asshole!"

"Ah, ah, ah, you wouldn't want to get suspended for having another fight on campus, would you?" Drake mocked him. "I'm a bit of a pro at the principal and his rules about that stuff, you know."

"That's because everyone in this school hates your guts and wants to beat you into the pavement!"

Unimpressed, Drake chortled. "Not everyone. Otherwise I wouldn't be going to the prom with Loretta Featherston while you're going with—oh wait, you're not going. Because Sputter-geek's going with your girl because he somehow managed to be less pathetic than you." He sneered sarcastically. "Although I'll admit it's not by much."

"I swear, Mallard, if you don't shut up—"

"You'll sit on me?" he scoffed. "Why don't you sit on this instead?" Drake pulled out his hunting knife and pointed it at Ham, which made him reconsider his impulse to grab the smirking mallard. Drake let out a cruel chuckle as Ham backed down, and he savored it for a moment before delivering his parting barb. "See you later, loser. Enjoy your dork's night out while everyone else is at the prom."

* * *

A few halls away, Elmo was staying late after school to work on his science project in the school's lab. Although he typically aced his classes and did not really need to go that extra mile to ensure getting a good grade, he was rather enthusiastic about the project, and the school lab afforded him the best equipment and space to work on it uninterrupted. The premise was innovative—a way to harness the power of static electricity and put it to productive use. When Elmo had told his teacher about the idea and showed him his notes, he had encouraged Elmo to work on it and offered him the use of the lab to set up the treadmill and shag rug apparatus that Elmo proposed as the way to generate the static he needed. His initial notion of using a robot to rub a balloon against said rug was too complicated and expensive to rig up, especially in light of the fact that Elmo's attempts at testing that setup at home had just resulted in a lot of broken balloons and his mother complaining about the noise.

Thus far Elmo's project had been successful. He had been able to illuminate the light bulb rigged up to the treadmill on the last several runs, and he had even gotten the bulb to glow at its full capacity last time. The downside of the project, however, was that his static generator was not exempt from one of the most basic rules of science, which was that one could not get energy out without putting energy in. Since the science labs did not have a robot available to do the running for him, someone had to play lab rat and power the treadmill, and that someone was Elmo himself. As someone who did not even like gym class, having to run the equivalent of a track team practice for science was his least favorite part of it, especially since he had to keep pushing aside papers that the static charge around his body drew toward him like a magnet.

That was what he was still doing when the door swung open and an angry-looking Ham came in. Elmo was not even able to get out a word of greeting before Ham was in front of him at the treadmill, glowering in his face. "Thanks for nothing, 'pal'!"

"Whoa, what are you talking about?" the surprised Elmo gasped between breaths. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Ham stared back at him incredulously. "You asked Preena to the prom and have the balls to act like it's no big deal? You _knew_ I like her."

Elmo blinked, taken aback, and swatted aside one of the papers that came floating toward his face. "Huh? No I didn't—"

"Just shut up! I don't want to hear it. If you were gonna ask her, you should've told me, but no! I guess you thought it was funny to see me make an idiot out of myself again. Maybe you should've asked Samantha instead, sounds like she's more your type." Ham's expression darkened. "Some friend you turned out to be. I knew you had a crazy sense of humor, but I didn't think you'd screw over a buddy like that."

Despite being short of breath from running and under assault from flying paper, Elmo managed to get out a few words in his defense before Ham grabbed a roll of duct tape that was on a nearby bench. "Hey, I'm sorry, Ham. I really didn't know you liked her. It's just a dance—"

"Forget it!" Ham snapped. He pulled out a long piece of tape and before Elmo realized what he was doing or could say anything, he wrapped it across his hands on the treadmill bar and wound it tight. "Better keep up the workout, Elmo. You'll need to be in good shape for all that dancing," Ham said on a sarcastic note as he finished taping Elmo's hands down. He pressed the treadmill's "speed up" button a couple of notches and then stormed out without saying another word.

Elmo was too busy trying to get his hands free while maintaining his run to come up with any kind of response, although he was insulted that Ham thought he was after Preena when he had only asked her to the prom because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Had he known that Ham was interested in her, he never would have asked. He could not worry about that too much at the moment, though, because the more pressing matter of being taped to his treadmill was far more urgent. Getting free of the tape would be harder than he thought, as Ham had not realized his own strength when he taped his hands down. Elmo tugged harder and ran faster, muttering four letter words between ragged breaths, and he hoped that his sweat would wear down the tape's adhesive before he passed out. As the minutes ticked by he could feel his heart thumping at an unusually fast pace, and his vision began to cloud while he grew lightheaded.

_I'm not in the right kind of shape for this,_ Elmo thought miserably. He hoped he would be able to get out before he suffered any bodily harm. He jerked his arms urgently, still maintaining his run as best as he could, but it was not enough to work his hands free. Elmo could see the light bulb connected to the treadmill glowing brighter, seemingly more so than the wattage it was made for, and even more stray papers were flying at him from farther away than before. _Where are these coming from anyway? I didn't even think there was that much out in here!_

He kept on running, short of breath and trying to ignore the painful stitch that had formed in his side. Elmo knew he was close to his breaking point and that he would not hold out much longer. Eventually he gave up trying to shake off the papers attracted to him, and as he felt himself flagging he just hoped that he would not break or dislocate anything when he finally did collapse. Fortunately it never came to that, however, for Elmo's ingenious setup turned out to work better than he ever intended. All of a sudden the static energy he had harnessed reached the point of overload. Elmo was on the verge of passing out when the room seemed to swim around him, and he felt a strange tingling sensation all over his body. He could not see anything, but there was an aura of electrical energy surrounding him and he felt it building and growing with each passing second until it reached a critical point and blew like an overloaded fuse. It happened with enough force to fry the adhesive binding his skin to the tape, and Elmo flew backwards off of the treadmill and slammed against the wall.

He was so out of it that he felt no pain from the impact, and he lay there stunned for a moment as he tried to figure out what had happened. His heart was still pounding, but once he realized he could move, Elmo breathed a sigh of relief. He looked over at the treadmill, which had ground to a halt and was smoking. Oddly, his first concern was for his science project and the fact that it would take some fixing to get it working again. "Thanks a lot, Ham," he muttered, only then remembering the reason Ham had done it, and the argument they had had. Elmo winced as he stood, and decided that he would deal with Ham first and tinker with the treadmill later. It was probably not the best idea to mess with it while it was charged up, anyway, he figured, and he reached for the door only to be surprised with a shock that felt like he had grabbed a live wire.

Elmo blinked a few times as he recovered and took a deep breath, feeling like his hair was standing on end. He moved cautiously at first, and then touched his head only to find that it _was_ standing on end, or something close to it at any rate. A quick glance in the glass of the door that showed a ghost of his reflection confirmed that, and he grimaced when he saw the rather unflattering afro-like style. All he needed was for someone like Drake Mallard to walk by and see _that_, and he would be the butt of every joke in school for the rest of the year. _Oh yeah, thanks a _lot_, Ham. _

He took out his frustration on the doorknob that had given him the shock. "Good for nothing no-goodnik doorknob!" But when he extended his hand toward it, something very unexpected happened—a bolt of electrical energy shot from his fingertips.

Wait, what?

Elmo stared at his hands in shock. Had he done that?

With a curious frown, he pointed his finger at a nearby stool using the same motion he had at the door. To his surprise and amazement, the same thing happened, and a brilliant burst of electricity surged forth and singed the stool.

"Incredible!" Elmo exclaimed, his eyes alit with delight. "I've got the ability to channel energy through my own physiology. It's like… it's like I'm in a really good sci-fi movie. Or a comic book!" He grinned and then added, "Or a really good sci-fi comic book, even!"

His anger at Ham and the smoking science project was temporarily forgotten, and Elmo proceeded to zap different things at random from different poses and angles, testing the limits and applications of his newfound ability. "I could do so much with this," he said with rising excitement. "I could singlehandedly save the city from an energy crisis. I could light up an entire room without even having to flip a switch."

His gaze fell upon the light bulb that was screwed into the box attached to the treadmill, amazingly still intact although no it was longer aglow. He went over and unscrewed it, and then channeled a bit of his energy into it, making it light up. "I can make you run without even having to be in a lamp. Without having to draw energy of your own to work." He gave it an oddly sympathetic look. "That must be depressing, to exist only for others to use you for what you can do for them."

The thought led Elmo to think of something else. "Yes, you're right," he said, talking as though the light bulb itself had given him the notion. "Others might think of me that way now, too. Thanks. We'll have to stick up for each other and watch our backs, huh?" He smirked, "Or sockets as the case may be with you." He ran his fingers over the smooth glass surface of the bulb before slipping it gently into his pocket.

"I'll have to be careful with how I use this power." A mischievous smirk crossed his features. "Although not before I shock a little sense into Ham, and," he paused, imagining the upcoming prom and remembering what had inspired him to ask Preena to go with him in the first place, "a lot of it into Drake the Dickhead."

* * *

The sorry slashed state of his tires made it take longer than usual for Elmo to get home. The tow truck ate up the last of his cash, and he was lucky that the garage owner knew his mother well enough to let him have a new set of tires on credit. By the time Elmo made it home he had endured more unexpected zaps, a few of which knocked him flat on his rump, than he would have imagined the average individual would get in a lifetime. The first thing he did when he finally got home was take his mother's rubber dish-washing gloves, which, fortunately for Elmo, were not wet. Those cut down on the nasty surprise shocks by quite a bit, and he decided that he would have to get himself a better pair of gloves to wear on a more permanent basis, as well as more "grounding" clothing for the rest of his body.

Until then, however, the bright yellow dishpan hands would have to do. He greeted his parents briefly and ignored their curious and puzzled expressions that were no doubt the result of his dramatically altered hairstyle and odd notion to wear dish-washing gloves as an accessory, and snagged a bite to eat before heading back out again. He was at Ham's house fifteen minutes later, knocking on the front door. A plump pig woman with a kindly face opened it and gave Elmo a very strange look. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mrs. String. My name is Elmo Sputterspark, and I'm one of Ham's friends from school. Can I talk to him?"

"I'll," she paused, still giving Elmo an odd look, "go and get him. Just a moment." She left him waiting and a minute or so later, Ham appeared in the doorway where Elmo happened to overhear Mrs. String saying something to someone else about "odd hairstyle trends in teenagers these days."

Ham did not invite him in, and he closed the door behind him as he stepped out onto the porch, first glaring and then blinking in surprise at Elmo's altered appearance. "What do you want?"

Elmo did not say anything. Instead he maintained an impassive expression and pointed his index finger squarely at Ham's midsection. Before Ham could speak, a burst of electricity knocked him flat on his rear end on the cement landing of the porch. He groaned in surprise and pain while Elmo stood over him, shaking his head.

"Thanks for making my experiment an unparalleled success, buddy," Elmo quipped as he then offered his friend his other hand in a friendly gesture to help him up. "Now we're almost even for what I endured from you inadvertently giving me these powers when you taped me to my treadmill! Not to mention the indignation of being forced to walk around with this ridiculous hairstyle." He paused, and then zapped Ham again where he was still on the cement while he left his other hand extended to him. "Okay, _now_ we're pretty much even."

Ham eyed Elmo warily and stood, taking his offered hand only with hesitation and a very confused look.

"If you'd given me a chance to say anything before you flew off the handle, I'd have told you that I only asked Preena to the prom because she said no one asked her and was going on about how she thought I should go, too. She's just a friend. In fact, we were talking about how much fun it'd be to get one over on Drake the Dickhead at something like the prom, actually." He sighed. "If you liked her that much, you should've just said so."

Feeling both foolish and ashamed of himself in light of what Elmo told him, Ham gave his friend an apologetic look. "Oh. I guess I kind of earned you knocking me on my ass, then. I really acted like a chowder head. Sorry."

With a wry smirk, Elmo replied, "It's ok, Ham. You weren't acting."

Despite himself, Ham chortled. "Heh, I guess Drake the Dickhead really brings out the best in me. I shouldn't have let him rile me up like that and take it out on you. I was just… well, you know." He shook his head and apologized again. "Sorry." He looked over Elmo's changed appearance. "That's some hairdo, man. And can you really just zap anything like you did me without a ray gun or anything?"

Elmo nodded. "Yeah! It's like all of that electricity I generated, and more, is stored in my body now. I'm a walking death ray."

"Wow! That's pretty cool," Ham said with a note of admiration. "Makes up for the hair, anyway."

"Yeah, I know," Elmo said dryly. "I bet Preena will be embarrassed to be seen with me at the prom, so maybe she'll want to dance with you instead. I have other plans for it anyway."

Ham gave him a curious look. "Like what?"

With a grin Elmo shot a light burst of voltage at Ham's feet, making him yelp and jump in surprise. "While you steal my date and dance with Preena, I'm going to make Drake the Dickhead do an entertaining little dance of his own in front of the whole senior class."

* * *

When prom night finally arrived, Preena was surprised by her date's attire to say the least. She had been hoping that Elmo would smooth down that strange new hairdo he had been wearing to school as of late for the occasion—it was not flattering at _all_!—and she supposed that she should not have been surprised that he was also wearing gloves when he showed up. Elmo had worn some kind of rubbery glove to school every day recently, claiming that he had a skin condition and it was doctor's orders. Nothing prepared her for what he was wearing when he picked her up that night, though. Instead of the formal wear that one expected a young man attending the prom to don, Elmo had on a bright yellow rubber jumpsuit, goggles, and electric blue gloves and boots. She knew that Elmo had some odd and eccentric tastes but that… that was over the top, even for Elmo Sputterspark. Especially with that horrible hairstyle!

"Preena, honey, would you like us to get some pictures of you and your date before you go?" she heard her mom ask from the foyer.

Blanching at the thought, Preena stepped outside quickly and brought the door with her so that only her head poked through. "No, Mom, that's okay. Maybe tonight afterwards. We're gonna be late, so we've got to go now. Bye!" She shut the door before they could argue and before they could get a look at Elmo, and she hurried toward his car as quickly as her prim heels would allow.

"That's quite the suit," she remarked coolly as she climbed into the vehicle, which sadly matched his attire far better than she liked. "You did know this was supposed to be a formal thing and not a costume ball, right?"

Elmo looked over at her as they pulled out of the driveway. "Well, I had to dress for the occasion, and unfortunately functionality trumps formal wear in a case like this." He paused and gave her a reassuring smile as he looked her over in her satiny mint-green dress. "You, uh, look pretty though." Girls liked to hear that stuff, right?

Preena could not help but smile at the compliment, although Elmo's strange attire still had her put off and embarrassed in advance for the stares she knew they would be getting when they got there. "Thank you. But what do you mean by 'functionality'?"

"Let's just say that I've got some shocking new dance moves," he said, and held up a finger that to her amazement began to spark.

"Oh my god," gasped Preena. "That's… you? It's coming from you?"

Elmo nodded.

"How?" the stunned Preena asked.

"It's a long story, but the short and simple version is that my science experiment I've been working on for Mr. Featherwich's class is not only a success, but has a few additional perks that I got a real charge out of."

"Wow." Preena fell silent for a moment as she processed what Elmo told her. "I guess you'll definitely win at the science fair now."

"It'd be a real shock if I didn't," Elmo quipped with a grin. "But you know who'll get an even bigger charge out of it?"

"Who?"

"Drake Mallard."

The devious look in Elmo's goggle-covered eyes and the unashamed glee in his tone made Preena giggle. "Oh, wow. This'll definitely be a night to remember, won't it?"

A little while later they arrived at the dance and the two of them went in arm-in-arm like all of the other couples did. Just as Preena predicted, everyone gave them strange looks—Elmo for his attire, and her as his willing date being seen in public with him dressed like that—but at first no one said anything. Both Preena and Elmo heard their whispers and snickers, however, and she started to grow uncomfortable and little red in the face after a few minutes of it.

_Maybe Elmo isn't really my type after all, _she mused as she realized how he did not even seem to notice their looks and stares, and felt a stab of envy for those dancing with their normally-dressed dates. She knew Elmo had always been okay with being viewed as odd or eccentric, but while she admired his ability to genuinely not care what his peers thought, she did not share it. Shy and introverted as she was, and as much as a part of her wished she didn't, Preena _did_ care, and she felt extremely awkward and like she was on display. It was a bit of a relief to her then when Ham, who had come alone, joined them at their table.

"Hey guys," he greeted them in his usual friendly manner.

"Hey Ham. Nice suit."

"I might say the same about you, man." Ham chortled. Like most of the other boys attending the prom, he was in a tuxedo rented from one of the local tailors. "People are thinking you forgot this wasn't the Halloween ball or something."

"Well, Elmo's always had a unique style," Preena said with a somewhat sheepish look, while Ham smiled at her.

"Yeah. His pretty date makes up for his ugliness, though."

Preena laughed at the combination of a compliment to her and friendly jab to his friend in one. "Thank you, Ham. You look nice, too. Very handsome."

"Thanks," he replied with a shy and flattered smile.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice sneered from behind them. Drake Mallard, clad in a yellow and black tuxedo with a red tie, leveled a mocking stare at the trio. "What's this? Captain Sputter-geek and his sidekicks Prissy Preena, Pork Chop the Pathetic, and his invisible date?"

Ham and Preena glared at Drake, while Elmo just stood up and gave Drake a bored look. "Oh, I am deeply wounded by your cutting wit."

"My eyes are deeply wounded by your ugly-ass costume. If you were going to dress up like some stupid comic book super-hero, you should've at least had the decency to pick one with a mask so we wouldn't have to look at your face, Super-dork."

"Super-dork, really?" Elmo rolled his eyes. "At least give me a name that matches my powers… something like 'Megawatt.'" He pointed his finger at Drake, and before he could respond, Elmo hit him with a blast of electricity that knocked Drake head over tail feathers.

While the other students gasped and gawked as Drake got his comeuppance, his ditzy date Loretta Featherston scratched her head. "Isn't Mega-Watt the name of some band?"

Elmo blinked and glanced at Loretta. "Is it?" He did not remember that, but then again, his memory had not been the greatest even before his brain had taken an insane amount of amperes the day he gained his powers. "Okay then, make it Mega_volt_!"

He gave Drake another zap just because he could, and the bully let out a loud and angry string of four letter words as the shock left him with a ringing echo in his head and feeling like his feathers were puffed out just like his rival's hairstyle.

"What's the matter, Drake?" Elmo, or as he had jokingly dubbed himself, Megavolt, taunted. "I thought you got a charge out of being the center of attention!"

Several other students laughed, and all of them were watching and waiting to see what would happen next.

"Fry his ass, Elmo!" one of the other students cheered him on.

"Yeah, give Drake the Dickhead a zap from me," someone else called out.

"Go, Megavolt!" one of the cheerleaders—Ham's once-crush Samantha Fennix—shouted with a wide grin on her bill while two of her cheerleader friends joined in with her.

"Give me an M!"

"Give me an E!"

"Give me a G!"

That time the crowd echoed, much to the recovering Drake's enragement. "G!"

"Give me an A!"

"A!"

"Give me a V!"

"V!"

"Give me an O!"

"O!"

_Whoa, the cheerleaders are cheering for me?_ Elmo was amazed. The cheerleaders had never given him as much as the time of day before.

"Give me an L!"

"L!" That time Preena and Ham joined in with the crowd, and Megavolt—that _was_ a pretty cool-sounding name, he thought—socked it to Drake Mallard once again, with feeling.

"Give me a T!"

"T!"

"What's that spell?" Samantha's poufy black hair bounced along with her breasts as she did a cheerleader-style jump in her strapless prom dress.

"Megavolt!" the crowd roared in response.

Louder that time, Samantha repeated, "What's that spell?"

"MEGAVOLT!"

Megavolt could not help but grin.

"What's that spell?" Samantha hollered a third time, in a trained voice that would have made most hoarse, and as the crowd gave their thundering approval by shouting Megavolt's name so loud that it drowned out the music, Drake Mallard had a different answer. _Dead meat,_ he thought furiously as he was thrust up and back down against the floor in a demonstration of Elmo-turned-Megavolt's powers. _As_ _soon as I can get up I'm going to give him what's coming to him!_

That was Drake's last thought as he went sailing through the air. Megavolt's latest electrical charge hit him with such force that it knocked him unconscious and sent him flying past the stage's curtains and into a rack of costumes kept by the school's drama club.

* * *

Drake did not know how long he had been knocked out when he regained consciousness. It was not that long, he realized after a moment, for he could still hear the prom music playing strong on the other side of the curtain_. Oh, wait until I get my hands on that freak 'Megavolt' Sputterspark! I'm going to barbecue him in front of the entire school and let him live _just_ long enough to regret it._ Drake's vicious thoughts were not melodramatic. Angry as he was, he wanted to see Elmo suffer that much. It was among the first times he had been enraged enough to think he would enjoy killing someone, but it would hardly be the last.

"So he wants to dress up and play super-hero, does he? All right, then, I'll play it his way." Drake surveyed the costumes on the rack and picked up a wide-brimmed red fedora and put it on. It matched well with his tuxedo, and was a similar shade of red to his favored leather jacket. Grinning, he spotted a mannequin wearing a Midnight Marauder outfit complete with black face mask. With a cackle he grabbed it and tied it around his head, and then he took a black and red magician's cape and put it around his shoulders. "Oh yeah, this conveys the right look," he said as he struck a dangerous pose, complete with his best ass-kicking glower, and eyed himself in the mirror. "I'll enjoy pulling the plug on Sparky's little freak-show in this get-up."

Drake pulled his hunting knife out of his jacket pocket and polished it on one of the satin fairy dresses on the rack. "Much better." He held it up so that it gleamed in what little light there was backstage, and then he admired his form in the mirror once again. "All right, St. Canard High," he chuckled darkly. "Say hello to your new anti-hero… Dark Duck!"

He frowned. No, that just sounded stupid, like it was trying too hard.

He stuck another intimidating pose. "Midnight Murderer!"

That pseudonym fell even flatter than the last one, and Drake scowled irritably and twirled his knife with growing impatience.

"No! I need something better than that. Something completely black, ruthless, and _negative_! Something like 'The Evil Black-Hearted Bastard of Doom'!"

He frowned and shook his head. "No, too close to what I call the principal. Come on, come on! I need something suitably bad-ass so I can negate that loser's existence already!"

It was then that wicked inspiration struck and Drake eyed his reflection with approval, a twisted smile crossing his bill as the perfect name came to him. "Negaduck."


End file.
